le Visage dans le Miroir
by thisisnotme-shh
Summary: A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of L’Opéra Populaire to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that ‘all goes well.’ Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes? EOW
1. l'Ignorance est Douce

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. I have a hard act to follow, but I shall do my verymost bestest. Also, there's lots of French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story. Enjoy!

**Chapter Title:** _L'Ignorance est Douce_

* * *

I had to admit that _L'Opéra Populaire_ exceeded even my most fantastic delusions of grandeur. Of course, a ballerina only sees the inside of as many theatres as she can get herself kicked out of, and I had been told I was a prize to _L'Opera de Rouen_. Rouen, however, was not the home of great art. _L'Opéra Populaire_ could hold that title without a smidge of protest from its competitors.

I was to be the future overseer of the ballet rats that nested in its luxurious barracks. Of course, Madame Giry was in charge now, but, when I had been hired, I had been informed that, if all went well, I would be assuming her position when she became of an age where she was not flexible enough to be an example to the girls. Madame Giry had told me that she had originally wished for her daughter, Meg, to follow her, but Meg was young yet – a shy 19 – and aspired for the position of _ballerine principale_. I, however, had passed my _âge principal pour une ballerine_, at 27, and was delighted with the prospects – and the salary – which had been offered to me. My dreams of fame had come and gone, and had been recognized, as well as they could have in Rouen, for a peasant girl with no title and no backing other than that of the patrons she charmed. Unfortunately, I had been a rather timid girl – far too prim to seduce some rich aristocrat to speak highly of me before the owners of _L'Opera de Rouen._

A position of no small power in the almost infamous _L'Opéra Populaire_ – it was beyond any fantasy I'd ever harbored. The only smudge in the brilliant illumination of my future had to do with _le scandale avec le fantôme de l'opéra_. But certainly that had smoothed over by now – it'd been nearly two years, after all.

The doorman pulled open the door of my hackney, and I stepped carefully onto the cobblestone street, reaching back for my reticule, before walking towards the smooth, immaculate steps that led to the grand door of _L'Opéra Populaire_. The _aides-serveurs_ followed obediently behind me, bearing my small trunk.

When the enormous doors were opened, I was dazzled by the expanse of immaculate, gleaming marble.

"Mademoiselle Decker?" A stern-looking, older woman was approaching me, a couple of young women trailing her.

"_Oui_," I responded. "It is good to see you again, Madame."

"And you, Mireille." She nodded. "You are early. That is fortunate."

"Yes, Madame," I smiled politely. "I did my best to find a fast coach."

"Good." She wore an approving expression. "We are going to begin the practicing _Acis et Galatea_ in two days' time, and I would not mind your input in my finalization of the choreography."

"Of course, Madame," I replied, feeling the smile reach my eyes in anticipation.

"For now, however, we must settle you. Meg, dear?"

A pretty blonde who had been whispering conspiratorially with the other ballerinas straightened at being addressed. "_Oui_, _Maman_?"

"Please show Mademoiselle Decker to – I believe I had decided to put her in _la chambre à coucher du deuxième soprano_…" Madame Giry shot me an apologetic glance. "Yours is not an official position, Mademoiselle," she explained, "and so we have had to improvise."

"_Je comprends_," I said accommodatingly, giving both Girys an understanding smile.

Meg, however, was looking quite horrified. "Christine's old room?" she whispered.

Madame Giry turned a stony look on her daughter. "It was _requested_," she spoke through gritted teeth. I looked curiously between them as Meg deflated beneath her mother's glare.

The blonde ballerina's sigh was slightly overdramatic. "Very well," she said softly. "Mademoiselle Decker," she turned to me to offer a shallow curtsy. "If you will follow me, please?"

"Certainly," I replied, nodding, and stepping gently across the resplendent floor behind her. _Les aides-serveurs_ followed us with my trunk.

I was so busy admiring the architecture, even as we passed through the public facilities of the theatre and into the permanent apartments. As we turned countless corners, I worried that I would not be able to find my way back to the _bâtiment principal_. I voiced this fear to Meg, and she grinned. "It is not so complicated," she explained, "We are taking _le chemin plus long_. I thought that you might not want to meet everyone before you have even moved in, and it is a busy route."

I nodded, and thanked her for her consideration, as she came to a stop before a nondescript, though thoroughly polished, doorway. Meg procured a ring of keys from her pocket, detached a simple bronze one from the silver loop, and handed it to me. I then turned to the door, unlocked it, and pushed it open, before stepping inside.

"This room is for me?" I breathed the question, astounded.

The floor was hard – a rich, polished cherry-wood laid directly over stone floor. The bed was much bigger than any I'd ever seen – a large queen-size, I would later decide, or a small king – with burgundy down covers and rich gold embroidery with matching pillows. A desk stood opposite it against the wall – not far away, as the room was of only a size slightly larger than I had been accustomed to as a leading ballerina in Rouen – and a polished dresser sat regally beside it.

And taking up the entire third wall, beginning at the foot of the bed and ending beside the dresser, was an enormous, beautiful mirror, with an elaborate gilded frame, carved in lovely excess. At Meg's slow nod, I felt a brilliant smile blossom across my face. "It's amazing!"

The blonde smiled, lifting a hand to shoo the boys who'd carried my trunk back to their other duties. "Shall I leave you to unpack?" She suggested, suddenly looking uncomfortable as her eyes flicked about.

"That would be lovely, thank you," I replied appreciatively, and she quickly took her leave.

I pushed my trunk over towards the chest and began to transfer my belongings into their new resting place, sighing happily to myself. When I finished, which was quickly, I straightened, and took my stationary, pen, and ink out of the trunk before closing it and pushing it against the wall, out of the way. I then placed them on my desk, only to find that something was already there.

I put my things into the topmost drawer and picked up the folded, yellowy parchment, examining the seal – a deviously grinning skull set in blood-red wax.

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_L'Ignorance est Douce_ – Ignorance is Sweet

_Ballerine principale _– prima ballerina

_Âge principal pour une ballerine_ – prime age for a ballerina

_Le scandale avec le fantôme de l'opéra _– the scandal with the Phantom of the Opera

_Aides-serveurs _– busboys

_La chambre à coucher du deuxième soprano_ – the bedroom of the second soprano

_Je comprends_ – I understand

_bâtiment principal_ – main building

_le chemin plus long _– the longer way

**Reviewing is good for your health. And mine. It also lets me know whether I ought to continue. Cheers!**


	2. la Liberté n'est pas Libre

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story. Enjoy!

**Chapter Title:** _la Liberté n'est pas Libre_

To **Laura Kay** and **Countess Alana:** Thank you so much for your wonderful, if short, reviews! My first two, and on the very _day_ I posted the first chapter! I'm so excited!

* * *

My breath seemed not to reach past my suddenly constricted throat as I tore my gaze from _le joint mauvais de crâne qui a grimacé_, ripping through the red wax with hands that shook despite my admonishment. I unfolded the coarse paper, eyes focusing, but not comprehending, the messy scrawl.

_Salutations,_ _Mademoiselle Decker._

_Welcome to mon théatre de l'opéra. I expect that you are pleased with __your situation; however, Madame Giry, unfortunately, was not authorized to __inform you of all of the requirements accompanying the position of ballet mistress __at my opera house. If you will breech the subject with her at a time and place free __of unnecessary ears, she has been given my permission to brief you on your new __position, should you choose to accept it. I suggest, dear mademoiselle, that you __do so, as there are secrets within these walls that will not leave with a woman __who has not proven her trustworthiness._

_Your Servant,_

_le Fantôme d'Opéra_

_O.G._

The parchment fell from my hands as I read the childish signature.

I had never been told that I was a sensible woman, and there was reason for this. No matter how persuasively I argued to myself that this could not possibly be any more than a rather creative prank, my imagination had leapt into gleeful flame at the spark.

I sighed, torn. If this was a prank, and I took it to Madame Giry, then she would surely be forced to reconsider my aptitude for a post that held such responsibility. However, if it was _not_ a prank, I would be placing my self in what might be mortal danger. My mind rewarded this conclusion with an image of a ridiculously gruesome face leering over me, a toothy, bloodstained dagger catching light which came from no particular direction, to glare mercilessly at my corpse-white face.

I shook my head to clear it of the image – I was being silly.

Wasn't I?

Dear Lord – _curse _me for reading too much! I heaved another – slightly overdramatic, I admit – sigh, leaning down to pick up the paper. I scanned it again, for some sort of hint that this letter had not been written by a brilliant, insane man quite intent on killing me if I did not obey him.

I did not find anything. I had not expected to. I refolded the parchment and slipped it to the invisible, long slit in my deep grey traveling skirts, which led to a slender pocket in my petticoats. Biting my lip and shooting an anxious glance over my shoulder, I then turned and openly scanned the room before opening the door and slipping outside, near shivering from the strong sensation that I was being watched.

* * *

Eventually, I came into a main hall, from slinking down the corridor, in the opposite direction from which Meg had led me. A few polite requests for directions later and I found Madame Giry working with a dark-haired ballerina on the curtained stage.

"Madame?" I requested her attention rather shyly. The older woman gave me one questioning look, before hastily dismissing the girl and approaching me. "My apologize, Madame Giry, I only…"

"You look as if you've seen a ghost, girl – out with it." Her voice sounded oddly matter-of-fact at this – as if seeing a ghost was actually a possibility.

"No, Madame, but – I suppose that even _L'Opéra Populaire_ has its share of pranksters?" I asked, feeling quite timid with such a question.

Her eyes were rather round – as surprised, I supposed, as such an unshakeable woman would ever let on. "Oh, Mademoiselle – none of your belongings have been damaged?"

I let out a heavy breath. "Nothing so serious, Madame," I assured her. "Only – a letter, which welcomed me in a fashion that was… not so polite." I suddenly realized my tone, and rushed to correct myself. "But, Madame, I assure you that I will not let some silly joke unnerve me to a point that I would not be able to fully…" I trailed off, noting the sudden whiteness of her face; the stillness of her person. "Madame, are you… well?" I began to hear my breathing thicken; my heart began thrumming wickedly. The iniquitous picture was resurfacing in my mind, and I subconsciously reached a hand out to steady myself on the frame of the stage.

"Yes, yes – I'm terribly sorry, Mademoiselle Decker – a _letter_, you said…?" She shook her head, again the steady, mature woman who had interviewed me for my current position.

"_Oui, Madame_," I replied politely, "A letter, speaking of-"

She cut me off smoothly. "Pardon me, Mademoiselle – if we could please continue discussion of this silliness in my quarters?" Her voice was a shade too loud, and my well-informed imagination identified this as a staged exit.

"Of course, Madame – wise of you. We shouldn't want to give these mere children any ideas, _non_?" I replied, voice equally casual, though my mind ached from being pounded against this puzzle.

Madame Giry's nod was distracted, and she grabbed my arm beneath the elbow to drag me behind her like I was but an errant apprentice ballerina. Luckily, it was not a long walk to her room – in fact, I was impressed by its nearness.

Madame Giry pulled me sharply inside, before flicking the lock on the door. The ominous click rendered silence in the room, and I locked my knees abruptly to keep from collapsing, trying to picture Madame Giry as the one bearing the ghastly knife.

The auburn-haired woman – how did she still have color in her hair and be of an age to retire? Was she paid enough to _dye_ it? Ooooh… Anyhow, the auburn-haired woman had stepped to her desk, which was nicer than mine, with a silver and white granite top gleaming reluctantly. Her steps were slow, and weary, and her winter shoes – soft, feminine leather boots with wooden heels of a deeper brown than my own, which were sort of beige – echoed off of the hard floor, despite its certain stability. She stopped before the desk, and I followed her now long-held gaze to the yellowy parchment, which was folded and sealed with conspicuous red wax. I could not see so far, but I knew that the impression was the same _joint mauvais de crâne qui a grimacé_ which I had seen only a moment ago.

Madame Giry had torn the seal and read the letter by the time I had registered her picking it up at all. With a sigh, she refolded it and thumbed the seal to fasten it once more, then replaced it, flat, on the desktop, pressing it into the granite with distracted fingers.

"He anticipates my retirement," she spoke aloud, but I near felt I was not being addressed.

I leaned against the doorframe, letting the words swirl delicately in my mind before thudding into reality. "Madame, it was a prank, though !"

Her smile was wry. "Not a prank, my dear. No, _notre fantôme d'opéra _is as real as he wishes to be."

My head swam, and I leaned my head back against the wood. "Well," I slowly said, as I attempted to adapt my sense of reality to fit this information. "I guess…"

But I didn't know what I guessed. With fingers that had once more begun to tremble, I withdrew the letter from my pocket, unfolding it to examine it once more.

"_I suggest, dear mademoiselle, that you do so, as there are secrets within these walls that will not leave with a woman who has not proven her trustworthiness."_

Oh, dear.

**Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_La Liberté n'est pas Libre_ – Freedom is not Free

_Le joint mauvais de crâne qui a grimacé _– (literally) the evil skull seal that grinned

_Mon théatre de l'opéra_ – opera house

_Le Fantôme d'Opéra_ – the Opera Ghost

**Reviewing is good for your health. And mine. It lets me know whether I ought to continue. Cheers!**


	3. Imposition Mentale

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story. Enjoy!

**Chapter Title:**_ Imposition Mentale_

Props to **Laura Kay, Countess Alana, Goddess of the Neon Rose, **and **Atheshar** for reviewing! You guys are the best! And **Atheshar:** I shall try my hardest to keep my muse active! I don't think I'll have much trouble, though: Erik and Mireille are not the most patient of characters.

* * *

"I guess… I should certainly like to know what this is about," I finished finally, fixing one of my best unreadable stares on Madame Giry.

The older woman clasped her hands together, and for a near unperceivable moment her eyes darted around the room beforesettling on me. "It is not such a horrible task, nor even a demanding one. _Le fantôme_ simply needs someone to fetch things for him, and to remind the managers of his demands…"

"His demands?" I blinked, gnawing the inside of my cheek as I tried to absorb this.

"_Oui_, mademoiselle," Madame Giry replied, "Every month, Ehr - _le fantôme_ – is to be paid a sum of twenty thousand francs, and Box Five in the theatre is to always be left empty, so that he may watch with privacy."

I only subconsciously registered the second phrase, as I had been rendered immobile at the first. "Twenty… _thousand_?" I squeaked.

Honestly, what would one do with twenty thousand francs? And in a single _month_?

"Yes," she nodded, "And 'fetching things' would include food, clothing, paper, ink-"

"Wax," I suggested. Pausing, she raised an eyebrow at me, and nodded.

"Precisely. Now, you lose a generous amount of privacy when dealing with _notre fantôme_. You will want to know that – it would be most uncomfortable to realize such a thing at a later date. You must make yourself available; you must not argue or refuse his bidding. Beware of his temper. Watch behind you."

"I – okay," I said in a strangled voice, beginning to imagine that dreadful knife again. Curse my imagination… curse the situations my imagination was given to exaggerate!

"You will probably be broken in slowly – a sheaf of lined paper here, a feather there… but you will accustom yourself to the extra errands. _L'Opéra Populaire_ is worth it."

I paused, discomfited. "You speak as if I have already decided to accept this task."

She raised her arched eyebrows at me. "You speak as if there is a decision to be made."

She had a point.

After a short, tense silence, Madame Giry reached for a notebook on her desk. "Now," she said, "I must return to _la _Sorelli – she is the _ballerine principale pour Acis et Galatea_. We have begun her solo routine early. Tomorrow, if you will, listen to the morning orchestra rehearsal, so that we may meet for the afternoon overview and discuss the second song."

"Certainly, Madame," I nodded slowly, the gears in my mind beginning to crankily function once more. "Tonight, however, I believe I shall retire early."

The thin woman nodded, "Will you be wanting a meal sent up to you, Mireille?"

"That's alright," I declined, "I need sleep more than anything else, at the moment."

She smiled softly. "I understand. _Rêves plaisants_, _mademoiselle_."

I managed to blunder about halfway in the direction of my room before becoming lost, and asking a stage hand - or some other sort of insignificant, younger boy, I certainly wouldn't have known – for aid.

Once safely in my room, I removed by boots, then methodically unfastened the small, black, beadlike buttons – exactly one hundred of them – on my faded, nondescript grey travel dress – with only a touch of white, sporadic embroidery around the hem. I could not possibly sew or make clothing to save my life, but embroidery soothes me in its simple mindlessness, only occasionally requiring a smidge of imagination, of which I have plenty.

I stepped out of my dress, feeling my bare feet arch routinely. Balancing on the ball of each foot in turn, I meticulously unbound my corset, loosening it enough to slip it over my shoulders until I stood in my _sous la robe_ and undergarments. Carefully folding my dress over the rack outside my door, to be taken by the maid, I relocked my door, turning to lean against it as my eyes roved the room warily.

It was me _contre le fantôme de l'opéra_.

Assuming, of course, that he had as much time on his hands as I would suppose. Certainly he spent his time spying on young girls, hoping for a glimpse of _cela qu'une dame cache_.

Oh, dear. I supposed that was uncalled for.

How he spends his time is his own business, after all.

However, I would certainly try to commandeer an _écran_ before completely unclothing myself. His business way his own – unless it conflicted with mine.

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Imposition Mentale_ – Mental Taxation

_Ballerine principale pour Acis et Galatea_ – the prima ballerina for Acis and Galatea

_Rêves plaisants_ – pleasant dreams

_Sous la robe_ – under-dress (shift)

_Contre_ – against; versus

_Cela qu'une dame cache_ – that which a lady hides

_Écran_ - screen

**Reviewing is good for your health. And mine. It lets me know whether I ought to continue. Cheers!**


	4. Votre Domestique Plus Humble

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story. Enjoy!

**Chapter Title:**_ Votre Domestique Plus Humble_

Ha-ha! Two chapters in two days? 'Nay!' You exclaim, 'It cannot be!'

But it is!

_Voila! _

* * *

I woke the next morning in a daze, but was quickly able to remind myself where I was, and why I was there. I had been doing so every morning since I had left _L'Opera de Rouen_. After all, I had spent 17 years of my life there, not having left for a single night – to wake up in a bed that was not my very own, slightly mildewy, bunk in the barracks of the _ballet de corps de Rouen_.

As I slowly reviewed the astonishing events of yesterday, I slowly woke my limbs from their heavy, warm drowsiness. I then spent another few moments making sure I had not missed any conspicuous reasoning.

I finally – reluctantly – cracked an eye open. With a weary groan, I opened its mate, eyes drifting purposefully to my writing desk as I propped myself up on my elbows.

Yes, there was the letter.

How predictable.

I sat up, rather stiffly, and stretched my arms above my head, a keen escaping my throat with the meager exertion. Back still arched, I swung my feet out from under the fluffy coverlet, sliding out from underneath it, and then flushing slightly as I pulled my _sous la robe_ down from around my hips. I then lifted my chin, just in case I was being watched, and banished the roses from my cheeks, stalking towards the table with an unnatural poise which was only possible - for me, at least – by years and years and _years_ of careful training, which now forced me to consciously intend to walk normally in order to avoid the short, eloquent steps taken on the balls of my feet.

The note was short and impersonal.

_Salutations again, Mademoiselle Decker,_

_Your acceptance of my offer has gladdened me. Your first task shall be the obtaining of foodstuffs: I will need bread, cheese, and fruit - enough to last for two days: no more, no less. It must be of the finest quality you can acquire. If reimbursement is necessary, I will consider supplying you with accurate funding at a later date._

_Your Servant,_

_O.G._

Ooooh, O.G. I'm sooooo scared.

Actually… he killed people, didn't he?

* * *

After I had chosen my garb – a simple, mauve, linen dress, with an errant chain of embroidered white roses slinking across the left sleeve – I hurried out of my room, down the hall, to the left, straight, then left and a quick right, into the staff entrance, into the orchestra pit.

I wasn't late, thank all things holy. Madame Giry looked up from papers spread across the meek, rickety desk which had been squeezed into a corner. She offered me a smile, and beckoned me over. I did so, but not before wincing at the sound of not-yet-tuned instruments.

As the music progressed, Madame Giry followed notes she had already taken, scratching something out here; adding a detail there. I closed my eyes, noting the swells and trills – opportune moments for a flouncy twirl, or a saucy gesture – the music had a sly, smooth feel to it – it was the accompaniment of _un morceau de ballet_: a celebration, of sorts – it felt rather… ritualistic, by the sound.

As the director began to tap out the chorus' opening notes on the polished piano, the ballet mistress and I relaxed into our stiff-backed chairs, waiting for the next _nombre de ballet_.

It seemed years later when we finished, but I was not bored. On the contrary, I was sure that my cheeks were flushed; my eyes shining. I had _known_ that I would be good at this. But it was extremely satisfying to finally be able to recognize that not only _could_ I be good at choreography – I _was_ good at it, and I _had been_. Madame Giry and I conversed straight through the noon meal, trading ideas, and had finalized them by the end of the second orchestra rehearsal. The approval in her eyes whenever I made a suggestion was nearly intoxicating: I had never shone as a ballerina, but perhaps my talents were better suited to the sidelines.

* * *

I arrived at my room in a distracted euphoria, but the feeling solidified, then crumbled into a dead weight in the pit of my stomach as I met the eyes of that _le joint mauvais de crâne de merde_.

Dear Lord.

Five minutes found me on the back of some poor horse, riding as quickly as I dared – a very gentle canter. I was not a horsewoman. I clutched the saddle and reins tightly, feeling my eyes nearly pop from my head, but not able to blink.

If the market was not open, he would _kill_ me.

But, as the unfortunate dappled creature beneath me skidded around the cobblestone corner, I saw a light on in the building I had received directions to, from the stable-hand I'd demanded a gentle, malleable horse from.

The sigh that emerged from my lungs nearly deflated me, and I slid from the saddle of the grey, not even considering that it would need to be tied up, and rushed inside.

"_Monsieur,_" I breathed hastily at the man who looked up at my entrance, "_Je dois achéter des pains, fromages, et fruits…s'il-vous plait_?"

He raised his eyebrows to accompany a smile. "_Oui, Mademoiselle. Une segande._"

The shopkeeper aided me in selecting items of good quality (and great expense), but I was all too grateful, and paid him from my savings purse, refusing to consider the sudden lightness of it in my hand, once the appropriate amount was removed.

The stable-hand was a gem, I decided, as I exited the building to find the grey beastie primly nibbling at the grass that was sprouting from the cracks in the cobblestone. "_Oh, bon cheval – beau cheval!" _I praised the creature thoroughly before climbing astride, setting the basket of food in my lap.

Then the clock tower struck six. I realized that the shop had most likely been closed when I'd arrived, and considered tipping the clerk, but decided against it when I remembered that Horse and I had been near galloping back to _L'Opéra Populaire,_ and were already quite far away from the shop.

I dropped Horse off at the stables, meeting the same stable-hand, tossing him a coin pulled haphazardly from my purse with a broad but hurried smile as I trotted indoors.

When I arrived in my room, I put down my basket and snatched the yellowed parchment from my desk, ripping a corner off in my haste. With a soft scream of frustration, I held the errant scrap to its greater body, and – thankfully – was able to read it nonetheless. The script was much more informal, and the handwriting was even worse than usual, looking distracted.

_Mademoiselle-_

_Please leave the foodstuffs in the second costume storage chamber at the sixth hour. Please be prompt. Do not force me to resort to warnings of the harsher sort._

_-O.G._

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Votre Domestique Plus Humble_ – Your Most Humble Servant

_Ballet de corps de Rouen_ – the ballet company of Rouen

_Sous la robe_ – under-dress; shift

_Un morceau de ballet_ – a ballet piece/song

_Nombre de ballet_ – ballet number/song

_Le joint mauvais de crâne de merde _–the bedratted evil skull

_Je dois achéter des pains, fromages, et fruits…s'il-vous plait?_ – I must buy loaves of bread, cheeses, and fruit… please?

_Une segande_ – one second

_Bon cheval_ – good horse

_Beau cheval_ – beautiful horse

**Reviewing is good for your health. And mine. It lets me know whether I ought to continue. Cheers!**


	5. Il ne Peut pas être Humain

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story. Enjoy!

**Chapter Title: **_Il ne Peut pas être Humain_

Thanks to **Laura Kay** and **LostSchizophrenic** for your reviews of chapters 3 and 4!

Sorry guys, this one is a bit short: only a single kb longer than chapter 3. Ah, well. If I'm going to post a new chapter as often as I have been (basically every day), they're not going to be much longer than 35kb on Microsoft Word. Just so you know. Unless, of course, it's a chapter that requires lots of description, on which case you might find yourself bored.

Also, I say I'll be posting every day, but let me warn any future faithful readers that I will never, _ever_ update on Wednesdays. I'm not at home until at least ten, and then: a girl has got to sleep.

* * *

Dear Lord Almighty and Jesus and Mary and... Saint Geneviéve...

I hadn't even written my will yet!

Of course, I didn't have anything to leave. Or anyone to leave anything _to_, on that note. I didn't even have any money, as I'd spent it all on that bloody _food_.

Knowledge that the end of my life was imminent did not keep me from a full sprint down the hall, towing my basket along haphazardly.

It struck me, eventually, that I had no idea of where the costume rooms were.

Luckily, I knew where they _might_ have been. At _L'Opera de Rouen_, the costume rooms were very near the stage, and if that was the case here at _L'Opéra Populaire_...

Success! The number '2' was carved carefully onto the door. Suddenly hesitant, I silently twisted the door handle, and pushed it open, light spilling through the crack, into the pitch-hued room.

I stepped inside, leaving the door open behind me so that I might see. I let my eyes dart as they wished, seeing piles and piles of costumes… but no _fantôme_.

He was not there.

I don't know what I had expected, exactly. A pale, ghastly man, perhaps, with blazing red – no, _orange_ – eyes, white hair that stood out on ends, a hooked nose, and lips pulled back in a permanent snarl. He would approach me silently, with only the sound of his breathing audible, for mine would have stopped at the sight of him, and hold that _poignard de merde_, star of my most unfathomable nightmares, high above his head, and bring it down-

I was distracted by my imaginings by the sudden slamming of the door. The room went black immediately.

"_Ça fait chier_."

I don't like to mention it, but… I've a sort of fear of the dark…

"Language, Mademoiselle," a low voice chided me.

I spun. Oh my dear. He was here, and I couldn't see him, and I couldn't see the door, and I couldn't see my hand – here I waved it before my face, just to assure myself – I couldn't see _anything_. I felt my eyes began to water as I stepped forward, blundering in the direction I thought I remembered being towards the door.

My hand hit something that was not a door. Nor was it a ceiling. I'd bet it wasn't window-glass, either. It was silk.

Silk… over _flesh_.

I drew breath to scream, but a gloved hand pressed sharply over my mouth.

"Now, now. We'll be having none of that." He continued to mock me in that low, melodious voice. That _voice_... "Calm yourself."

The hand was slowly drawn away from my face, and words I did not want to speak emerged from me in a whimper that I would later wince at for its pitiful hue. "Please… the light… the door… _please_…"

I felt him hesitate, though we were no longer touching; could almost hear him weighing the situation. "If it is absolutely necessary," he finally said, in an arrogant drawl that made me wince.

I heard him move, and the door opened only a sliver, bringing the room from complete darkness to shadowy outlines, and illuminating the two of us, for our nearness.

_Mon cher Dieu_.

His eyes were beautiful. A light, clear green, with flecks of gold which complemented the former, but stood out in their boldness. His skin was naturally somewhat dark, but it had the faded, mellow, dust-colored look one achieved by an unhealthy lack of sunlight. His hair: dark brown, or perhaps even black, and smooth, tied back with black silk. The left side of his face was masculine and sculpted, with a high forehead, aquiline nose, and angular jaw. And his mouth… dear Lord, just looking at his full, sensually curved lips made me want to drag him off into a dark corner and… well, never mind, he didn't seem the type for such antics. In the corners of his eyes and mouth, and across his forehead, there were lines of age too deep to match my guess at his years: a certain sign of a hard life. Another hint: the pristine porcelain mask that hid most of the right side of his face from view.

"If you're quite finished gawking," he said, and I was caught rather off-guard at the scorn in his voice, "perhaps you would not mind telling me why you were not here at the sixth hour, like I had instructed?"

I'm sorry to say that I did cower a bit. "_Veuillez agréer mes excuses, Monsieur_. I was working on choreography with Madame Giry, and I was not able to go and fetch your goods in time to return by six. I tried to find the most suitable foodstuffs for you, if you would like to inspect them?"

His face was unreadable, and his eyes were rather cloudy. Lovely eyes – have I said? Oh, dear. "That will not be necessary," he grunted, near snatching the basket from my hands and earning a reproachful glare from myself, who was still feeling a bit like a cornered rabbit. "Do not be so irresponsible in the future."

"But I-" I began to protest, but he grabbed my shoulder and gently shoved me through the doorway, closing the door in question behind me.

Well.

That was interesting.

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Il ne Peut pas être Humain_ – He Cannot be Human

_Poignard de merde_ – bedratted dagger

_Ça fait chier_ – this is really bad

_Mon cher Dieu_ – my dear Lord

_Veuillez agréer mes excuses_ – please accept my apologies

**Reviewing is good for your health. And mine. It lets me know whether I ought to continue. Cheers!**


	6. Laissez le Rêve Commencer

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story. Enjoy!

**Chapter Title: **_Laissez le Rêve Commencer_

**Acknowledgements: **Thanks for reviews by **LostSchizophrenic**, **Laura Kay**, **MooMoo-Sama**, and** Countess Alana.** You guys are the best! And to **Laura Kay**: I'll try to keep them a bit longer from now on!

In this chapter, dear Mireille learns the joys of boating! And Erik learns… nothing! But he's in here. I hope he didn't go too OOC here – I just had to wing his reaction, as I've nothing to compare such an occurrence to in order to estimate his responses. I did my best. Enjoy! Oh, and this one's long. 36kb, as opposed to last chapter's 29.5kb.

* * *

I did not see _le Fantôme d'Opéra_ for several weeks. 

I ran his errands, of course. I purchased foodstuffs twice a week, and left them in _la deuxième salle d'entreposage de costume_ as instructed. I returned the following morning to retrieve an estimated reimbursement. After a fortnight, I even graduated to shopping for writing materials, candles, and shoe polish – though why a recluse would need such a vanity was beyond me.

My work with the _corps de ballet_ progressed delightfully. Madame Giry and I each made notes on the numbers in the mornings, then compared them and combined them for the optimal choreographic effect. The ballerinas them selves were a pleasure to work with, as well. True, they did not show me the respect I wished to be owed – I was not so imposing as Madame Giry – and their mindless chatter seemed indefatigable. But they were not at _L'Opéra Populaire_ for no reason: I had never witnessed such a concentration of sheer talent.

Life seemed to be a waking dream. I remember falling asleep one night while chiding myself that such contentment could not possibly last.

I was right, of course.

* * *

I stepped into _la deuxième salle d'entreposage de costume_ early on my free day. I hoped to get an early start on my shopping: Meg had told me that there was a lovely bookshop on the other side of the city, and I was nearly drooling with anticipation of a fresh selection of reading material. 

The basket was still full when I opened it. Astonished, I peered inside.

The stale air of the unwindowed room, with the dust and reek of mildewy clothes, had not done any good for the contents. The fruit was soft, the bread was stiff, and the slices of cheese had become crusty.

He had not come.

The sensible side of me instructed me to get on with my shopping – Horse and I had a long trip ahead of us.

The sensible side of me was not a very sturdy one.

I knew there had to be some sort of secret passage to and from this room. I had never seen him enter or leave it, even that first night, when I'd deliberately waited for him.

For _at least_ four hours.

So I searched for it.

It took a while. Actually, it took a bloody _long_ while. It must have been _years_.

I deduced later that it had, in fact, been an hour and a half or so. But still.

I found a mechanism that was set off by the slightest pressure, and felt beyond triumphant as I stepped through.

Luckily, I found no forks in the passage until I came to a more open area in the floor below the auditorium, where all of the private chambers were located.

Oh, dear. It was awfully dark…

I found a door nearby after floundering around for a bit, and pushed at it – but no,drat, it was one of those secret door things, again. I poked at the sides until they gave way.

I felt rather faint when I walked into my own room.

So. My mirror was a door. And, I saw, as I inspected it, it was like glass on the other side – he could _spy on me!_

After I got over my shock,it occured to methat that was actually rather kinky.

Oh, dear. What was _wrong_ with me?

Anyway, I got a lantern from the corner of my room, and then took another one out of the emergency storage beneath the floorboards as well – just in case. Then I exited back out the mirror, closing it gently behind me.

Well, this wasquite exciting, actually. On an adventure, walking through secret passageways…

Or swimming?

Water gathered at the foot of the flight of stairs down which I was walking. I stared, thoroughly flabbergasted.

Oh, right. There was a boat.

How convenient! I stepped into it carefully, emitting a quick shriek as it swayed. My voice echoed through the cavern, and I shivered.

Now. How does one work a boat? Paddles. Right.

I hooked one of my lanterns to the tall part on the front of the boat – there's a name for that, isn't there? I've forgotten, assuming I ever knew. I set the other lantern on the bench in the back of the boat. Then, feeling very brave and rather like one of those pirate women in my novels, I grabbed the single, long oar and pushed away from the dock-

And toppled promptly into the water.

"_Va te faire enculer_," I addressed the boat resentfully after spitting out a mouthful of slimy, freezing water.

Mind, the water reached only about to the middle of my thigh. That had not stopped me from becoming soaked from head to toe.

I clambered back into the boat, steeling myself for a long trip.

* * *

I was not as happy as I ought to have been, when I saw a light at the end of the tunnel. I was irritated, exhausted, and _soggy_, and good spirits seemed quite beyond my capabilities. 

This did not keep me from being impressed with the sight that greeted me.

Firstly, there were candles _everywhere_. Secondly, there was lots of bronze, and a bit of gold, and an abundance of shiny, elaborate, carved things. My eyes rather smarted, actually, after all of that darkness.

It was a sort of lake – a pond, really, if you considered the size. Platforms rose from it, of wood, or metal, or perhaps stone – it was near impossible to tell, as they were so concealed by a plethora of different colors – rich colors: purples and reds and golds… and ornate carvings of… well, who knew what? I didn't recognize any of the scenes.

Lots of candles. The bronze holders rose and entwined to form a short wall, which seemed to threaten the gauzy hangings that separated what looked to be individual chambers.

And as the centerpiece of the entire work of art, there was an amazing piano – no, I suppose they call the ones with the pipes organs, don't they? Anyway, there was this gigantic _organ_, and it was… really big. And shiny. A very dark wood, polished until the reflected candle light made it look as if it was, itself, glowing.

The man of the hour, _le Fantôme d'Opéra_ himself, was seated before this organ, his head bent over the keys. But he wasn't playing.

How odd.

I decided to make my presence known. And my strife. "Do you _know_ how long it took me to find this _putain de endroit_? I swear, I have fallen from _le bateau mauvais de sort malheureux_ at _least_a _million_ times, and I am _filthy_, and did you-"

His soft voice was clearly audible, even over my steadily rising shrill, and he silenced me immediately. "What," he demanded dangerously, "Are you _doing _here?"

"Monsieur, your food…" I began, but my reason vanished when I saw his drawn, exhausted expression. "_Monsieur_," I breathed again, "_vous avez... défectuosité_!" I stepped out of the boat, wading towards the shore. My dress was ruined, I noticed, feeling a pang of remorse.

"I am fine." His voice was low, and I should have heard the warning within it. "Return to your quarters. You are not welcome here."

"But you-"

"_Leave_!" he roared, and I took an involuntary step back. Must he speak so loudly when I am a mere yard or two away?

I felt tears spring to my eyes, and thought better of wiping them, letting them trickle sullenly down my cheek as I looked at him with my very best pitiful expression.

Was it working? Reaction? No. Change tactics.

I sniffed and ignored my damp face, taking a deep breath to allow myself to be consumed by 'righteous fury.'

"No keeper of mine shall walk about in a state of ill health!" I snarled, and lunged at him.

He was either very ill, or very surprised, for I knew he could have throttled me in an instant if he had so wished. I have been constantly reminded of my lack of common sense throughout my life. It has made no impact on me whatsoever.

"Now," I said, once I had pulled him for a few steps, "Where is your bed?"

With a look that was still rather dazed, he pointed. In the direction opposite that in which I had been walking. I blinked.

It was an interesting thing. Shaped like… a bird. What were those things? Geese? No, it was a swan. With crushed velvet sheets and coverlet, no less, of a brilliant wine color. "Ooooh," I cooed, before pushing him onto it.

I was then faced with the temptation to jump on him. I decided that now was certainly _not_ the time, and pursed my lips, surveying him speculatively. He slowly came out of his shock, and glared at me. I considered giggling at the fact that he looked like a pouting four year old – though a rather attractive, mysterious one – but decided against it when I remembered, again, that he did do that thing with the kidnapping and the murder and… yeah.

"Okay," I said, "Now I'll…"

What exactly did one _do _with a sick person?

**

* * *

Translations: **

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Laissez le Rêve Commencer_ – Let the Dream Begin

_La deuxième salle d'entreposage de costume_ – the second costume storage room

_Putain de endroit_ – censored place

_Va te faire enculer_ – censored

_Le bateau mauvais de sort malheureux_ – the evil boat of doom

_Vous avez...défectuosité_ – you are… ill

**I'm worried that I might have had a bit too much fun with that. If you thought it was unrealistic, please don't stop reading – just tell me, and I won't let it happen again. However, if you _did_ like it, please tell me, and I'll make _sure_ it happens again! And if opinions vary, the majority will rule. **

**So don't waste your vote! Review!**


	7. Un Procédé Maladroit

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story. Enjoy!

**Chapter Title: **_un Procédé Maladroit_

**Acknowledgements: LostSchizophrenic**, thanks for keeping up with the story! You're always one of my first reviews. **Laura Kay**, you were right about the phrasing in that passage; I changed it as soon as I realized. Thanks for the tip! Please let me know if you see anything else of that sort again. **Kristiana Marie**, you were also right – I changed the subcategory to humor. I love good advice. Also, thanks for the review from **Gigi**, and I believe that covers it!

Sorry it took a while to get this one up. I've been having trouble using any of my free time to study, rather than write, and I'm afraid the tests I've gotten back this week have proven this habit unwise. I will not leave you, though, my lovely readers – I just might only update once every one-and-a-half days, or something.

In this chapter… not much happens! It feels a bit like filler, but it was necessary filler. Forgive me, please!

* * *

"Don't tell me you don't know how to tend a simple head cold," he half-asked, sounding incredulous.

I regarded him with a fierce, offended glare, then dropped it despondently. "No."

He seemed to be on the verge of rolling his eyes. "All the more reason to leave me alone!"

I propped my hands on my hips stubbornly. "I _can_ help," I insisted. "Tell me what's wrong with you."

He sighed heavily, closing his eyes and pressing his left palm to the uncovered side of his face, with the heel of his hand resting in the hollow beneath his eyebrow. "You'll need to brew tea with the herbs hanging in my cabinet – the third shelf has approximations that I've labeled, look there. That should clear the sinuses. You must either cool _la fièvre_ or sweat it out."

"_Vous avez une fièvre_?" I echoed, aghast. At his slow, hesitant nod, I leaned forward, pushing his hand away from his face to feel his forehead myself. Yes, it must be a fever: he was simply _emanating_ heat, and yet felt clammy. I clucked my tongue sympathetically. "_Pauvre garçon_," I cooed, feeling a swelled spot at the side of his neck. "Is that bad?" I asked, pressing the slight swell investigatively.

He let out a low hiss, and I abruptly withdrew my hand. "_Yes_, it's bad." He glared accusingly up at me.

"_Vraimont pauvre garçon_," I repeated apologetically. "What would you have me do first?"

"Take the towel cloth from the washbasin and dip it in the lake, to try and bring the swelling down in the glands." I noticed how he refused to refer to himself, stubbornly taking on the semblance of recitation. "Then boil some water at the pit, and boil the second cloth, then let it steam a bit before placing it across the forehead to bring out the fever. Next, make a weak tea to soothe the throat and clear the senses. Then, the patient must fall into a light slumber supervised if possible, to make sure that the fever dies, or at least does not rise."

Sinking my teeth into my lower lip in thought, I turned from him to fetch the towels. In the small shaving mirror, I saw him lean his dark head back – ever-so-gently – on the satin pillows, eyes sliding closed once more.

I hurried about the tasks, wringing the icy water from the slimy towel before returning to help _le fantôme_ wrap it around his neck. I responded to his soft groan of discomfort with another croon of sympathy.

When I returned with the steaming towel and tea, he was fast asleep. Frowning, I laid the towel over his forehead and set the frothy beverage on his _table de nuit_, then sat on the far side of the _lit de cygnet_.

I will not – though it is tempting – fail to mention that I was positively aching to peek behind the mask. Wouldn't anyone? But I was able to restrain myself by considering what might happen if I accidentally woke him up. So I sat.

Boredom is exhausting. I was dozing within the hour, sprawled across the velvet comforter. I think that my head was on the shoulder of _le fantôme_. By the time I'd lay down, however, I was too drowsy, and the warmth of the velvet was like a drug. There was no hope of movement.

* * *

"Mademoiselle Decker!" A whisper sounded from somewhere quite far away. "Mademoiselle! _Mireille_, you _pouffiasse_, get _up_!"

My pillow was moving. I forced my eyes open.

_Le fantôme_ was kicking at me halfheartedly; glaring. I noticed detachedly that his left hand kept his head still. I sat up slowly, wincing as a horrendous cramp in my neck made itself known. "Ugh," I frowned. "Feeling better?"

"_En bref_... _non_." He glowered as the sour reply emerged from his still alluring mouth. "You must leave now."

"But you are sick!" I argued immediately. "I can't simply-"

"Madame Giry will wonder where you have gone," he pointed out. His triumphant smirk was frustrating, yet _extremely_ attractive…

Dear God, I frighten myself sometimes.

I paused, and nodded reluctantly. "I shall return tonight?" It was only a question in name.

His dark look told me that he realized this as well. "I'm really in no position to argue, as I'm sure you have realized."

As I splashed wearily through the labyrinth of stone and icy water, I ripped thin shreds from my apricot _sous la robe_ to leave signs of my affirmative progression.

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Un Procédé Maladroit_ – An Awkward Procedure

_La fièvre_ – the fever

_Vous avez une fièvre_? – you have a fever?

_Pauvre garçon_ – poor boy

_Table de nuit_ – night table

_lit de cygne_ – swan bed

_Pouffiasse_ – censored consider interpreting as 'crazy woman'

_En bref_... _non_ – in short… no

**I know: it's short. Very sorry. I'll do better next time.**

**However, I will tolerate any sort of complaints, if they come in the form of a review!**


	8. Oubliez que Tous que Vous Avez vus

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story. Enjoy!

**Chapter Title:**_ Oubliez que Tous que Vous Avez vus_

**Acknowledgements: **First and foremost, I must thank the wonderful **LostSchizophrenic** for reviewing less than an hour after I'd posted chapter seven! Yay! And to **Laura Kay**: I love getting reviews from you! bounces They like me! They really like me!

On a more literary note, I am pleased to announce that I have decided on the chapter titles up until the twenty-eighth! These are subject to change, but this is as close to an outline as I have, or ever will, come, and so I am feeling very proud of myself, at the moment. Do not think so little of my happiness, foolish mortals!

* * *

I pulled the rickety _bateau_ onto the steps, detaching my single remaining lantern (the other had been lost at sea) as I found the mirror-door on the wall, and trotted up the steps towards it, wringing my dripping hair as I went.

When I pushed open the mirror, I met the eyes above the pursed lips of Madame Giry.

"_Merde_," I murmured darkly.

"Indeed," the small, prim-looking woman's brows arched, and her thin lips twisted into an almost-smile. "Have you been making social calls, then, Mademoiselle?"

I paused, and then replied hesitantly, "You might say that."

She sighed, and motioned for me to close the mirror. Silently, I did so, then leaned against it as I faced her.

"_Notre fantôme_ has rarely accepted callers, you know," she said casually.

I nodded, not following her. Blinking, I tactfully supplied, "I was not invited, Madame: I… happened upon his... lair."

Her eyebrows shot up, and I knew there was no hope in convincing her of such a tale. "Well… I happened upon it because I was _looking_ for it – because he had not come to fetch the things he'd sent me for, you see," I explained quickly. "And, as it turns out, he is rather ill, and I made certain that he was in a state of recline before returning – which turned out to be a harder task than it ought to have been. He is dreadfully stubborn, Madame, even when weakened by illness."

The ballet mistress was surveying me with narrowed eyes that held no certain anger, but very thorough analysis. I fidgeted helplessly.

After what seemed like an awfully long minute, she looked away from me, frowning. "Not well, you say? What ails him?"

"He said 'a head cold,' Madame, but he was able to instruct me on treatment," I replied obediently.

"Well, he would certainly know," the auburn-haired older woman muttered.

"Madame, I'm terribly sorry to have worried you – was there something you were needing me for?" I asked politely.

"Yes, Mireille, I was hoping you would not mind meeting Meg at that bookstore on the other side of town – she spoke as if she thought you would be there. Anyway, I have heard from one of her friends that she has a _prétendant éventuel_ there, and I must make sure she is behaving appropriately. Of course, she would not behave in my presence as she might in, perhaps, _yours_, and-"

I nodded sympathetically. "Most certainly, Madame. I was intending to visit anyway, it shall be no trouble at all."

She sighed, "Oh, thank you, my dear. I would hate to impose, but I am Meg's mother before anything, and I worry for her, with such a career in her future."

I knew of what she spoke. "Madame Giry, I shall do my best to act as a mentor to her, if she will have me."

Her shoulders sagged, and her smile was weak. "Oh, if you would… and please, call me Antoinette."

* * *

I returned from the bookshop weary, but cheerful. Meg's suitor was but a lad, neither bold nor dashing, and I had little fear that she would so much as develop affection for him, let alone act unseemly in his presence. He was an awkward boy, and constantly blushing, but from the awe with which he regarded her, he was obviously smitten.

Each time that look surfaced, I felt a pang of jealousy shoot down my spine.

How embarrassing, really, that a woman of twenty-seven, and not a terribly bad-looking one, at that, should never have had a lover? But the possible suitors that might have frequented _l'opéra de Rouen_ were not of the marrying sort, and I was a Christian woman, in title at the least.

On a morecheerful note, I'd picked up half a dozen books I'd never even seen before, and I was terribly excited.

Horse was left with Édouard the _garçon de cheval_, and I returned to my room, munching cheerfully on a freshly baked cookie I'd purchased from a young vendor on the corner. I rarely allowed myself to indulge in sweets, but the girl had procured my weakness – oatmeal, with no raisins.

When I warily mounted the previously mentioned _bateau mauvais de sort malheureux_, I was able to arrange myself in a kneeling position. This made navigation a near impossibility, but, to my delight, I was – for the most part – dry when I reached the phantom's cavern… several hours later.

He was sound asleep again. I took a moment to coo at the sleeping form – even in sleep, he seemed rather dangerous, but it was only part of his charm.

And that mask… I curled my fingers into fists at my sides, resisting the itch at my palms to simply peek… but I _mustn't_, I knew…

Ok. I was over it now.

I set a mug of water to boil on the fascinating contraption which resembled an oil lamp with a large, flat surface on which to place things needing to be heated. Brilliant, really. As I blundered through the bags in the cabinet in search of the correct tea bag – completely disregarding any order they might have formerly been in – I saw him stirring, in the corner of my eye.

"Don't go back to sleep, I've seen you!" I blared triumphantly when I caught him peering over at me.

The dark-haired man's voice was slightly off-kilter from drowsiness, but his eyes were sharp. "_What have you done to my things_?"

I stared at him; then glanced at the disheveled cabinet. Oops. "I was… making some more tea?" I squeaked hopefully.

With an enormous sigh, he fell heavily back on the pillows. I turned back to the cabinet and tried anxiously to restore it to some sort of order. Hmmm… the drying things had been hanging at the top – yes, most of them were still in place, and the little pieces of paper had been stacked right there – hopefully they hadn't been in any particular order, as they certainly weren't anymore. The different tea bags had been in the labeled boxes, but they were jumbled now, and…

"Ooooooh."

How pretty! In one of the boxes, among the tea bags, was a little silver ring, clearly made for the hand of someone very slight, with an enormous, shiny stone-

No. It was glass. How peculiar.

"Did you know this was here?" I asked the still form of _le fantôme_, holding up the ring as I stepped towards him, positively entranced by the facets. Yes, I am a stereotypical lover of all things shiny. I am female. Hear me giggle ridiculously.

I registered him lifting his arm from across his eyes, and then, suddenly, he was at my side, grasping my wrist so tightly I detachedly wondered if my hand would simply pop off of my arm. That would be interesting.Sort of.Excepting the pain that might be factored into the situation.

Wait. Wasn't this guy supposed to be _sick_? He didn't look especially ill, only very, very, angry, and very, very as if he was about to kill me.

And yet still attractive. How unfair!

The look in his brilliant grey-green eyes was rather 'I am about to strangle you with my bare hands,' but then something like 'common sense,' or 'she's just a stupid girl' flashed through them, and he released my arm, snatching the ring from me. I hadn't let it go when he grabbed me, I realized.

And would you blame me? How could I let something so pretty shatter on the floor?

"Leave," he growled, voice thick with restrained fury, and something else. Hurt. The poor dear, what was wrong with him? "_Never_ come here again."

I may not have been keeper of an abundance of good judgment, but I am not _completely_ brainless. I ran. Fast.

I saw him bury his face in his hands as before my little, evil boat turned towards the labyrinth.

I remembered the water I'd been boiling, belatedly, but dared not warn him.

That _salaud foutu_, scaring me like that. He could make his own tea.

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Oubliez que Tous que Vous Avez vus_ Forget All You Have Seen

_Bateau_ – boat

_Prétendant éventuel­_ – prospective suitor

_Garçon de cheval_ – horse-boy. Stable-hand

_Salaud foutu_ – censored

**It's short, but I'm not going to apologize, as I was ordered not to by a higher power. If you want an apology, I will be happy to email you a private one, if you request it in your review.**


	9. Votre Main au Niveau de vos Yeux

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story.

**Chapter Title:**_ Votre Main au Niveau de vos Yeux_

**Acknowledgements:**

I am so happy I cannot _breathe_! I have planned through chapter twenty-eight! I never thought that this day would come! Amazingly, rather than draining my muse, as planning usually does, I have only been inspired and filled with excitement-osity! I will do my best to refrain from committing grammar errors, but inspiration often leads me to such sins! I am using too many exclamation points! Please read!

"Mireille! What are you doing out here? Wasn't yesterday your day off?"

I turned sharply from the book I was inspecting, and grinned weakly at Meg Giry, who was smiling perplexedly at me. "Your mother said I wasn't looking well." I explained, voice feeling rather heavy as I forced it from my throat. "She told me to go and buy myself something."

Meg grinned, tossing her golden curls. "You _are_ looking a bit tired." He grinned broadened as she jumped to conclusions as only a girl of her age could. "Is it a _man_?"

I stared at her, and felt a giggle emerge from me, unbidden. Astounded, I clapped a hand to my mouth, but my shoulders continued to shake for a moment. "Oh, if only…" I said, rather wistfully, leaning against the bookshelf in the very image of a little apprentice ballerina lost in a fantasy. "It's not so pleasant as that, but yes, there is a man involved."

"Ooooh tell me!" Meg squealed, neatly hooking arms with me and leading me to one of the small tables in the corner of the bookshop.

"It's not like…" I began uncertainly as she sat across from me, propping her flushed, youthful face on her hands.

"Mireille." The young blonde flattened her hands on the table, fixing me with a friendly glare. "I do not care if it's not exciting. Just tell me _who it is_ or I may _die_!"

I raised my eyebrows. "I'm not in a relationship with this man, Meg, and I can assure you that he _isn't_ interested-"

"But you are?"

I blinked. "That's an uncertain subject-"

"Oh, is he _married_? Oh, _Mireille_-"

"_Meg_!" I said sharply; loudly. She closed her mouth quickly, and for a moment was comical as she struggled to keep from speaking. I lowered my voice to just above a whisper and said, "I would not allow myself into a relationship with _le Fantôme d'Opéra_!"

She gasped theatrically. "You mean _Erik_ has gotten you into such a state?"

I blinked. "Why do _you_ know his name, and yet no one has told me?"

Erik. Ooooh. A perfect name, for such a handsome... ahem. I was_ just_ telling Meg I wouldn't be thinking like this anymore, was I not?

Meg clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes enormous. When she lowered her palm, she whispered, "_I'm not supposed to know!_"

"What?" I raised my eyebrows. "Then how-"

"Christine told me. But mother has not. I do not even know if she knows."

"Oh…" I paused, before a thought struck me. "Would you tell me what Christine has told you about… Erik?" Erik… it was so nice to have a name for him now…

And so she did. I did not expect the tale I heard.

Christine Daaé had found a place on the top of my 'Most Strongly Disliked People' list. And rightly so.

How _dare_ she be so selfish? That conniving, manipulative, selfish little _putain_, using Erik's affections to twist him, mutilate him, force him to release her from a fate she had brought upon herself?

Mutilate. Hah. I could be clever, when I wasn't trying.

Actually, I think I'll refrain from using adjectives like that in the future.

Anyway. Where was I? Oh, yes. Christine Daaé was the epitome of all evil, and she needed to die a terrible, painful death. Unfortunately, I seemed to be the only one who thought so. Meg, I noticed, was terribly sympathetic to the vixen's sob story, and only my keen senses could pick out the actual truth among the overdramatism.

Keen senses. Right. I was on a role, today.

Ahem.

Meg had mentioned a ring, in passing, as she told me of Christine's 'trials.' I leapt upon the information, casually inquiring after it. She explained that Christine had given Erik her engagement ring, as a token of her… farewell, or something. Anyway, it was a gift from her.

So _that_ was why he was so angry that I'd found it.

Which was rather unfair of him, really. I mean, how was I to know? And even then, how was it my fault that he only had the stupid ring, instead of the girl herself?

Not that it was Erik's fault. It was Christine's. Why she would have given up the literal _worship_ of such an_ attractive_ man…

… Was… unimportant! What _was_ important was that I now knew that I owed Erik an apology for my childish, inconsiderate behavior. And also a warning, that such actions were the norm where I was concerned, and that he'd better get used to it if he wanted me to continue playing secretary for him.

And so I had to return to the labyrinth. Though he'd expressly ordered me not to. Well… too bad for him.

Too bad for him, indeed! That _fils de putain_ had taken down all of my markers! I was in quite a state when I reached the cavern, near roiling with frustration at the hours I'd lost trying to remember my route. I docked the boat at the stone steps, next to its partner, which I supposed was for his use. My guess was that the boat I had claimed was a spare, to be used if the other one met an untimely doom.

Looking around for the black-garbed man, I clambered up the stairs, trotting hesitantly towards his bedchamber, around which the curtains had been drawn.

I froze as something solid wrapped around my neck, near burning the skin, and remained.

A _rope_.

"I thought I told you, _my dear_, that you were not to return." A low growl sounded from behind me."

_Oh, my._

**Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Votre Main au Niveau de vos Yeux_ – Your Hand at the Level of Your Eyes

**No other translations necessary! All the rest of it is, um… censored. Even though, technically, it needn't be, since the rating encompasses a certain amount of cursing. However, I don't _say_ curse words, and thus do not _write_ them, and so it makes me feel better. The rating is for… future situations.**

**So, do you think he's going to garrote her? No? Yeah, I didn't really think you would – where would the story go without its _prima_? But what _is_ going to happen?**

**I'm so excited that I know – because I planned through chapter twenty-eight! Which I've already mentioned. And you'll know soon – I'll post on Monday or so. Ciao for now! Ooooh, I rhymed!**

**I should not be up and writing at midnight. It is bad for your health. Mental health, that is.**


	10. les Péchés qui Sont à Vous

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story.

**Chapter Title: **_les Péchés qui Sont à Vous_

**Acknowledgements:** Thanks to **Lola**, **Goddess of the Neon Rose**, **LostSchizophrenic**, and **TheSiriusSparrow** for all of your reviews! Four in one day! I'm so proud! Oh, and to **TheSiriusSparrow**, I'm glad you understand most of it. I was worried that I might have made grammar errors – I speak textbook French, as well.

Anyhow, here's chapter ten. I'm sure you've all been waiting with bated breath to see what happens to poor, innocent, brainless little Mireille. Or not, since I only posted chapter nine Sunday morning.

But I'm going to keep you for a moment longer. I'd like to ask for a smidge of luck from my beloved reviewers, as I'm auditioning for _South Pacific_ Monday afternoon, and I'm afraid it's unlikely I'll be cast in anything but the chorus, due to the number of those who have seniority over me. Fortunately for me, I don't particularly _like_ the play, but I _love_ to act, and I would really like a role… ah, well. To distraction!

* * *

Thoughts flew through my mind rapidly – does adrenaline heighten mental capacity, along with strength and tolerance of pain? Anyhow, my mind covered a rather impressive amount of blathering in a rather short amount of time.

Firstly I thought he would garrote me. Secondly, something told me he wouldn't dare, seeing as he did not need to stir up those who would easily be thirsting for his blood once more, would they were given the chance.

And, after that, it hit me, somehow, that he would not kill a woman at all. Hurt her, certainly, but we females had that lovely quality in us – that innocence, that we would never consider reciprocating such a crime in reversed positions – and Erik was not the sort of man that was cruel enough to overlook this.

Oh, I knew he was dangerous, and rather mad. I knew that, if I said enough of the wrong things, he might hurt me enough that I would die, though not of his intention. I knew, though, that he would not deliberately murder me.At the moment, this thought had comforted me, though it is still rather disturbing.

He was slightly insane, but I could not believe that he was truly _evil_.

And so what would I do to… _lighten the mood_, shall we say?

Only someone as truly ridiculous asI would be able to throw caution to the wind so easily.

"Oh, that is _marvelous_!" I cooed, turning to inspect what I could see of the rope that attached me to the place where Erik stood, across the room. "How clever! How does it work? It simply stays put – as if it were a living creature!" As I spoke, I casually unwound the rope from my neck – a harder task that I had expected. It was quite sturdy.

He was positively _gaping_ at me. I could tell, from the way his face was arranged, that astonishment was not a sensation he often met.

I approached him to offer him the end of his… rope thing. "It's quite interesting, Erik – will you show me how it works?"

I am brilliant! His expression was watered between shock and even more shock, then flickered, and hardened. "_Who told you_?"

Oh, dear. I blinked, and wavered in my fortitudinous façade. "I – I-"

I decided I didn't want to answer that question. "I have come to apologize," I said solemnly, and fixed my expression to one of such anguish that I hoped he would be distracted.

He was. His confused expression was all the invitation to continue that I needed.

"I did not realize the reasoning behind your outrageous outburst, and so I did a bit of investigation, and researched your background in the only ways I knew how. The outcome has enlightened me on my cruelly casual manner, and I can only beg your acceptance of my apology, and will not even request forgiveness, as I know it is too much to ask of you-"

I saw him open his mouth, and knew he was going to ask about where I had found such information. I couldn't possibly dodge a question of such magnitude, and so I opened my eyes very wide, biting my tongue until my lip trembled. My unblinking eyes quickly filled with tears, and the near nauseatingly strong sorrow and anger I had felt at Meg's report of the past washed over me once more. I waited until the moment before the first enormous tear spilled over my eye before I stepped towards him, pressed my hands to his chest, and buried my face in his cloak, sobbing as delicately as I could manage.

Success! Of course.

He was very, very still, and then slowly, reluctantly, reached to pat my back gently. I almost smiled. How awkward he must have felt!

I was no beauty, but I had a nice face though rather pointy and one of my greatest prides was that I cried as prettily as a storybook damsel – in that I didn't get splotchy. Sure, my eyes swelled a bit – that was unavoidable – but it gave my light brown eyes a sort of tawny hue when against the pinkness of my skin – only my cheeks, really, and my nose. I really had a face that was good for crying. Unfortunately, I did not smile as prettily as I cried.

I wonder if that was some sort of hint.

Anyhow, because I cried well, I felt no dismay at my appearance, though my hair was rather disheveled, when I looked up at him. "How could they do that to you?"

He said nothing, but his eyes were rather enormous, and he looked almost… frightened. Vulnerable, even.

The reversed roles gave me confidence. Too much confidence. "Christine… that manipulative _salope_. _Elle a allumer toi_, and then… betrayed you, manipulated you, forced you to release her from a debt she'd brought upon herself. That vixen, that _pouffiasse-_"

"_Putain foutu_!" he roared.

And right into my face, too! How rude! I backed off. Okay, so I fell down. But he practically pushed me!

"You dare speak so of my angel? _In my presence_?" He bellowed, and I cowered shamelessly. I expected a bit more ranting, but he seemed rather beyond words, breathing forcefully.

Ok, how was I going to get myself out of this?

Oh. Right. The same way I got myself out of everything else. Steady tears began to trek down my cheeks once more. "How could she do this to you, Erik?"

He said nothing. I was not sure if I was saving myself, or digging my own grave, but I continued nonetheless. "How could she leave you? How could she scorn such a powerful love, that you would _kill_, to keep her by your side? Is she as perfect as you say, if she could not see that she had more than she chose to keep?"

I was astounded by the darkness that veiled his amazing eyes. Sorrow; bitterness; hatred; pain; jealousy; _love_ – all in abundance. My stomach writhed with envy – how I would wish for attentions of such intensity to be centered upon _me_!

Not necessarily _Erik's_ intentions, mind you. Besides, he seemed quite preoccupied with his little soprano.

I wish I could sing.

"Oh, Erik…" I sighed at the blackness behind his eyes. "_Le pauvre_…"

He would not cry before me, I knew, but he sincerely needed to, my presence notwithstanding.

"I… apologize, as well, Mademoiselle," he said in a voice thick with emotions that had very little to do with me and very much to do with what I had spoken of. "I should not forbid you your opinions."

"And I should not bother you with them," I countered coolly, feeling rather unpleasant beneath my sorrow for his sake. Eyes still rather watery, though I no longer cried, I stood again, and reached forward to put a hand to his left cheek. "But you must not let her haunt you."

His eyes became heavy-lidded as soon as my hand came into contact with his face, and I hesitated for an unperceivable moment before relaxing, awed at the effect simple compassion inspired in him.

I had learned something important. I let this knowledge imprint itself into my brain, before registering his words.

"I cannot keep control her. She reigns over my thoughts, as she does my heart," he had murmured.

The tears that spilled over my lower lashes were not forced, or even summoned. Something like surprise flashed in those ghostly green eyes, and I only subconsciously registered him leaning forward, closer and closer, until out noses were nearly touching… to murmur, "It is time you returned to your own chamber, Mademoiselle."

I blinked.

Wait a minute… that wasn't what was supposed to happen!

I hadn't planned it, of course – I was not _that_ clever but I had thought, for a moment, that he had been about to…

Oh, well. It was not as if I had wanted him to.

Except that his mouthlooked positively glorious, and I knew it'dfeel wonderful…

But still. I was not interested. He was not interested. I was not some silly chorus ballerina, to be fantasizing about a clearly unattainable man. Such silly things had only occurred to me due to the situation _he_ had put me into. I did not desire damaged goods!

Oh, dear. That sounded _horrible_. I had only meant to refer to his adoration of Madame Daaé.

With a jolt, I realized that neither of us had drawn away from the other, and I could feel his warm, if not exactly freshall the more attractive, in my opinion – oh, dear, _stop_ – breath on my face. "Of course, Monsieur," I gasped, stepping quickly out of his casual, one-armed embrace, which I had not noticed before, as I slipped back into formality. "I would not want Madame Giry to be worrying after me again."

He nodded, face once again unreadable, and walked me to the boat, helping me keep my balance as I stepped in, like a regular gentleman. I settled myself into an awkward kneeling position, and pushed away from the steps, only weakly smiling a farewell.

He did not watch me leave, but turned to his cabinet – the one I had near destroyed. And though it cost me several spills from the rickety boat, I ruined another _sous la robe_ indicating the way through the maze of clammy stone and icy water.

At least I am consistent!

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_les Péchés qui Sont à Vous_ – The Sins Which Are Yours

_Elle a allumer toi_ – she teased/seduced you

**Reviewing makes me haaaappy… and it makes me update faster. **


	11. Quel Genre de Vie

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story.

**Chapter Title:**_ Quel Genre de Vie_

**Acknowledgements: **To **TheSiriusSparrow**, **LostSchizophrenic**, and **Laura Kay**, I extend my thanks for your many reviews and enthusiasm. To **Quixotic-Feline** and anyone else who was wondering, I've been pronouncing Mireille as 'meer-RAYL.' I don't know how it's _supposed_ to be pronounced, as I've never met anyone with the name, but apparently it means 'miracle' in once of those languages that is connected to French.

To **Mandy the O**: Oh my dear lord! You're reading my fic! dies Yaaaaaay! And you like it! dies again Yaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

To anyone who was wondering, especially **Laura Kay**, as she so kindly mentioned it in her review cheeky grin, my audition went well, I had thought. Unfortunately, I didn't get a call-back. Ah, well.

I'm sooooooo sorry I haven't updated in… forever! Okay, like a day-and-a-half, really. But it _feels_ like forever, because I've been so bored of being busy! And I had trouble working this chapter out, so please, my lovelies, forgive me if it's rather rough around the edges.

Now! For the moment you've all been waiting for since you finished the last chapter! Voila!

_

* * *

I felt clean._

It was lovely.

I suppose I must explain myself. I have not taken a bath in four days, as I asked for a screen to put around the tub, and did not receive one for an unreasonably long amount of time. Of course, when I mentioned this to Madame Giry, she spoke to the _femme principale de nettoyage_, who cleared the matter up immediately.

I love that woman.

Madame Giry, I mean. I'd never even _met_ the _femme principale de nettoyage_.

Ahem. Anyway, I now had aforementioned bathing screen, and was in quite good spirits. It is almost impossible to not be content when one is covered to the shoulders in lime-scented bubbles and near-boiling water. I also had a new book – about a beautiful maiden, locked in a tower, guarded by an _evil_ witch who was trying to make a spell that would steal the maiden's charms and place them upon the witch, who, by the description, was rather hideous. But then, a handsome mage comes to challenge the witch with hopes to save the maiden, and-

Well, I wouldn't want to ruin the suspense! It was quite exciting, really, and so terribly romantic. Every time the maiden or the man looked at one another, there would be at least seven lines explaining how much love was in the glance, and it almost made me frustrated at the book for mocking my possible spinsterly future.

I propped my feet on the edge of the tub, wiggling my toes cheerfully as I sunk even further into the water. Oh, _good_, this was the part where they would declare their love…

…..

My goodness. Lusty little creatures, weren't they? I blinked – yes, that _was_ what it said. Oh, dear, I hadn't seen that coming at all!

Not that it was so terribly uncommon in the novels I usually choose.

Pardon, but if I am going to be a Christian woman, I'm going to have to at least understand what I am giving up! Until marriage, that is.

Assuming anyone out there would marry me, when there are so many young, doe-eyed creatures out there that would be perfectly eager to spread their legs for promises so many would know to be empty.

How depressing.

I flung the book away from me, my lower lip emerging in an overdramatized pout.

"That's not very fair." My whine had not been intended to actually be vocalized, but it surfaced nonetheless.

Dear Lord, I must have seemed awfully desperate. Well… in a sense, I was.

No, not _that_ desperate!

But desperate enough to marry the first person that would take me. That, I immediately decided – upon recognition of this trait, that is – was positively intolerable.

So… now I'd established that. And it meant _nothing_ to me, really.

And my book was on the other side of the room. _Now_ what was I to do?

I slid down into the bubbles until my chin touched the surface of the water. Sighing in my innocent bliss, my eyes slid closed.

As they had a tendency to do as of late, my thoughts soon turned to Erik. Oh, he was terribly good-looking. Or perhaps my mental image was simply distorted.

Which is strange. Another of the numerous reasons I have remained unpursued in a romantic sense: I have an uncanny knack for picking out the most insignificant flaw in a person – and once I have, it is all I see.

I really didn't mean to develop this habit, but I did, and it's dreadfully annoying.

But, anyhow, when I see Erik, it doesn't happen. The pickiness, I mean. Really, I already know he's positively infuriating sometimes, and a murderer, and a kidnapper, and a blackmailer, and he's got some sort of disfigurement beneath that mask… and yet… he still draws me like a cow to a salt block.

Which is really frustrating, because I hate to compare myself to a cow, no matter the context.

I was getting distracted again.

I painstakingly dragged myself back to my original lane of thought: however awkward the topic was, even when I was only discussing it with myself, I needed to figure out the root of this ill-founded attraction.

But _why_ was I attracted to him? He was hardly the zenith of masculinity, nor was he a saint, or even virtuous.

I knew _why_, of course. Those shoulders that were _just_ broad enough; the promise of muscles under the fitted suit. The masculine jaw; the eyebrows occasionally arched in bemusement; the strong cheekbone; the smooth, if pale, complexion – on the side of his face that I could see, that is. And those beautiful eyes: a ghostly green, with yellowy gold flecks that were only noticeable sometimes.

I knew he had a mutilation behind his mask. But half of an angel's face is better than none, _non_?

And that _voice_. Meg had told me he sang. Though I never heard that – I'm sure I'd melt, so perhaps it was for the better – his voice… when he spoke, the hair rose on my arms – and only half of the time was it fear.

I remembered the plethora of emotions that had flashed through those amazing eyes of which I spoke before, last night. I remembered the almost wounded feeling that had chilled my heart; I remembered calling it jealousy. _General_ jealousy, I had insisted to myself.

But was it?

He was, I finally recognized, the only man I'd been attracted to past an initial meeting in… years. Could it have been eight, now? Yes, because when I was nineteen therehad beenthat boy…

Anyway.

This had to mean something. And I didn't _want_ it to mean something. I didn't _want_ to lust after the very _last_ man who would want me.

Lust was not the right word, I halted abruptly to note. And _love_ certainly wasn't either, as I'm quite sure this was not what the characters in my books felt. I just… was _very_ attracted to him. In a physical and emotional sense. He had all the qualities I had dreamt of in a man. All but one.

He didn't want me.

He wanted that _salope foutu_ Daaé.

Who was so obviously not good enough for him.

Why didn't he see that?

Of course, I immediately assumed that _I_, on the other hand, _was_ good enough for him. And, honestly, any woman as vain as I would not have thought otherwise.

But, from what I'd seen in his eyes last night, it'd be a very arduous project to coax him away from his obsession. Was I up to such a commitment?

…..

Oh, shut up.

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Quel Genre de Vie_ – What Kind of Life

_Femme principale de nettoyage_ – chief maid

**Oy ! Review !**

**...Since when have I said 'oy ?'**


	12. Créature Pitoyable d'Obscurité

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story.

**Chapter Title: **_Créature Pitoyable d'Obscurité _

**Acknowledgements: Laura Kay**, our minds follow a similar pattern, I see. Romance novels are going to be the death of me, someday… **Quixotic-Feline**… clasps eye don't worry, I'll survive. Thanks for the encouragement! flushes **Collins**: Never fear, I try to update at least thrice a week. Also, thanks to **LostSchizophrenic**, **TheSiriusSparrow**,and **Shirl** for their reviews.

In this chapter, Erik happens! Oh, and Mireille is there too. They do stuff. Nothing fluffy, of course. Too early for that. Eh… sorry if I ruined the anticipation for some. I always feel rather frustrated when I expect fluff and find none, but perhaps some of you prefer to continue to expect fluff, in order to heighten the gratification when it is actually found?

I'm rambling.

Great, I'm turning into Mireille.

Wait a moment.

I based Mireille's ramblingness on _me_. Not Mireille as a character though – we're muchly different. For instance, I would have jumped Erik in that costume room, rather than drawing it out… but anyhow, the ramblingness comes naturally.

I often surprise myself with my own brilliance in situations such as this.

Yeah, that was sarcasm.

* * *

Okay, Mireille. Patience. You'll need a lot of it, so go ahead and prepare yourself.

I carefully schooled my expression into one I'd decided was as attractive as I could ever hope to appear – best to start out on the right foot, after all – before pushing my oar against the floor of the water to propel myself around the corner.

"_Bonne noire, Monsieur_!" I called as the little demon boat and I glided into the open space. "I've brought you something!"

Erik appeared from beyond the gossamer hangings of his bedchamber, looking as immaculate as ever. Honestly, was it not depressing to spend all of one's time dressed up, to be seen by not a soul?

Except me, that is.

Which implies that he would dress up for me. Which is, quite frankly, ridiculous.

"You're back." His voice informed me that this was not exactly delightful news.

I half-glared at him. "I brought you a present!" I said brightly, thrusting the basket towards him.

He warily lifted the lid, and his eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Cookies."

I smiled, quite proud of my thoughtfulness. "This lovely little girl has been selling fresh cookies outside on the corner for half a fortnight now, and I thought you might not want to miss them. They're simply addictive."

For some reason, _le fantôme de l'opéra_ did not seem quite as enthralled by this prospect as I was. To my incredulity, he did not even seem _interested_ in my offering, taking the basket to set it carelessly on the table behind him. "Is that all?" he asked dryly. "I really do not have the time to entertain you."

I felt my eyes grow large and pressed my lips together to keep them from trembling. Erik had the audacity to look slightly exasperated. "You can drop the drama, Mademoiselle, it only lowers my opinion of you further."

My mouth fell open, and tears were banished by the jolt of vehemence that I _felt_ flash through my eyes. "You- you- you accuse me of _fallacy_?"

His lips curled into a wicked (and yes, still positively intoxicating) smirk, and I forced myself to ignore it in order to maintain my righteous fury. "I suppose I do."

I glared hotly at him for another moment before relinquishing my ire. "Well, what did you expect? I'm only human, dear, and I use the talents I have been given, however scarce they may be."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback. I did my best to return his smirk, but I suppose it didn't turn out the way I'd planned, as I only merited a derisive snort in response. "You think rather highly of yourself, Mademoiselle Decker."

"On the contrary," I replied, ambling casually past him. Oh, this was fun! That moment of disbelief which merited such a startled silence was worth all of the time I intended to waste provoking it. "I think very little of myself, which is why I know myself so well. One must recognize one's flaws to recognize one's strengths to the fullest."

Where had I read that? Ah, there was no telling.

I sat on the bench before the colossal piano… er, organ, and saw his shoulders stiffen from the corner of my eye. "I can play this thing," I announced smugly. "I can play that one from… whatsitcalled… oh, whatever – this one." I tapped out the melody of 'Ode to Joy' with a single finger, knowing that it sounded rather ridiculous when such a simple tune was matched with the booming pipes of the piano… organ.

I turned to him, chin lifted proudly, to see him looking caught between horror and mirth. I made a face, getting up. "Well… at least I can play _something_," I muttered, exhibiting my most dejected persona.

He snorted – the second acknowledgement of my comedic tendencies. I avoided glowing so early into the game.

"So… what do you _do_ here?" I asked lightly, looking around. "Don't you get dreadfully bored?"

He was quiet for a moment: not in reflection, I noted by his expression, which was rather flat with distaste. "Yes," he answered shortly.

"Oh." My mind was already wandering, and I grabbed a cookie from the gift-basket. Hey, if he didn't want to be polite and thank me for them, he couldn't expect me to be polite and resist the temptation of them!

He regarded me with raised eyebrows – again – and a sort of unconscious upturning of those perfect lips that was a little to close to a genuine smile for comfort. I fidgeted under his alluring gaze, and he blinked, then dropped it, looking rather startled at himself, rather than at me.

There was a very short silence. I hadn't the foggiest idea of what was going on behind those marvelous eyes, but my mind was positively… blank. My goodness… he was attractive at the first glance, but now that I'd a moment to study him further… he was nearly breathtaking.

I absently wondered if he'd ever been stopped on the street and asked to model for a painting – a dream I'd always harbored for myself – when I realized, immediately horrified, that there was absolutely no possibility of that happening. How was it so easy to forget that mask, when it was so prominent on his face?

I tilted my head as I stared in his general direction, before slowly speaking as I stepped into a reasonable conversation-distance.

"How does it stay on?" I heard myself ask.

Erik blinked, dragged from his mental whatever-he-was-doing-up-there. "What?" he asked blankly.

I sighed – no turning back now. "Your mask. Does it stick, or something?"

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Créature Pitoyable d'Obscurité_ – Pitiful Creature of Darkness

_Bonne noire_ – good evening

**Oh, dear. It's _dreadfully_ short, I know. I promise the next one will be very long, to compensate! Maybe.**


	13. Pour Trouver l'Homme Derrière le Monstre

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story.

**Chapter Title:**_ Pour Trouver l'Homme Derrière le Monstre_

**Acknowledgements:** **TheSiriusSparrow**, **Collins**, **Shirl**, and **LostSchizophrenic** have all realized Mireille's danger, but it was hardly a surprise, anyhow. And **Collins**: I would never ignore my beloved reviewers! They are my lifeblood! They are the graham-cracker to my marshmallow! They are the respirator to my coma! Etc, etc.

In this exciting installment, Erik learns the importance of tolerance, and Mireille learns the importance of tact! Other stuff happens too, but… it's a surprise!

Ooooooh I looooove surprises! I wonder what's going to happen!

Oh, wait. I know. I'm the author.

Hey, neat!

Oh, and credit for minor inspiration for certain description in this chapter goes to **Mandy the O**, who is my hero! Yay!

* * *

"_Your mask. Does it stick, or something_?"

Oh, honestly! I was such an idiot. I could tell by the shock that suddenly dropped into his eyes, to replaced by only a flash of – hurt? – before scorn and fury made the beautiful ghost-green irises burn with an unholy fire.

Still handsome.

Not fair.

"_Putain de salope merdeux_!" Erik roared.

Dear goodness, he knew his curses. Well, I suppose one hears a lot, when most of one's time is spent _spying on people_.

He wasn't finished. "_Connasse_!" His roar became more of a cry, and my heart rose into my throat, and made itself known by thumping loudly in my ear. "_Baise-toi, gouine foutu_!"

I paused at the phrasing, first insulted, then intrigued. "Do you even know what those words _mean_?" I asked him innocently. "Because the last one certainly isn't true."

His glare receded, though his chest continued to heave to make up for breath not taken in outrage. Receded, I say, but _certainly_ did not disappear. He chose not to furnish me with a reply, and so I decided to make my own deduction – and keep it to myself. I prided myself in the realization that I now _knew better_ than to say something he didn't want to hear.

So I did my best to find something he _would_ want to hear. I came upon what I thought was an excellent supposition, and smiled earnestly as I sat back on the bench. "Anyway, I'm sure you're not so terrible beneath it as you're made out to be!"

I had made an unsound assessment. Again.

He gaped at me. "Well, then you're certainly not in your right mind, Mademoiselle!" He near choked the words. "And I'd have to say that it is past time for you to return to your bedchamber!"

Well… I certainly couldn't have backed down now! Alright, I suppose I should have. But I didn't.

"Oh, come now," I said, raising my eyebrows, "I've seen… the circus-folk. I'm quite positive that I have seen worse than whatever 'horror' lies behind your mask. Which is quite nice, by the way – is it porcelain? It looks like porcelain-"

"Mademoiselle, _hold your tongue_!" Erik finally snapped at me.

I paused.

"Would you prefer I take that literally, or figuratively?"

He sighed exasperatedly. "Figuratively, though I've mind to simply gag you, as I hardly think it possible for you to keep your mouth shut for any distinguishable period of time!"

"It took you at _least_ ten seconds to say that, and that is a distinguishable amount-"

"_Mireille_!"

I closed my mouth firmly, then pressed my lips together when I almost told him how terribly unfair he was being.

This seemed to amuse him.

He then appeared to remember why he had intended to shut me up in the first place, and the almost-smile vanished. "I can assure you, Mademoiselle Decker, that you do not wish to see… _this_." He gestured to the right side of his face.

"Of course I do!" I burst, then covered my mouth, giving him a theatrically reproachful glance. Erik didn't see it.

A look so haunted had entered his marvelous eyes that I near wanted to cry. I knew what that look meant, even having known him for such a short time. It meant he was thinking of Daaé.

The _connasse_.

I, on the other hand, was perfectly aware of the definitions of the words I chose. She deserved every one of them, for hurting Erik like that! Or… for hurting _anybody_ like that. It wasn't necessarily because she'd treated _Erik_ the way she had, of course. It was for treating _anyone_ the way she had treated Erik.

Right. That was it.

"You wish to see my face?" The beautiful man's voice was a swoon-worthy snarl, but I managed to control myself by noticing the agonized fury drawing tight lines across his prematurely aging face. "Very well. Perhaps such a sight will relieve me of your presence!"

And he threw the mask at my feet.

My eyes followed it habitually. Aha! So it hooked over his ear! Clever. How had I not seen that? Well, it wasn't a very large bit, and perhaps it was hidden by his hair…

I then remembered that Erik's face was what I was more interested in, and turned back to him abruptly.

I blinked, and tilted my head to the side.

Well.

It was really hard to imagine that his face could be so perfect on one side, but on the other… not so perfect.

His deformity was in almost the exact line of the mask, proving he'd designed the cut of the costume himself. The skin grew pale and looked to be pockmarked, but not from any accident. His cheekbone was the same size as the other, but looked to large the skin was so thin that one could see the raw flesh and purpley veins just beneath, though it was mottled with white blotches of slightly thicker skin and it was sunken against his face with the look of a corpse preparing to rot its own skin away.

Mercifully, the ghastly condition bypassed his extraordinary eyes, sliding around them to neatly prevent the growth of half of his right eyebrow, and skulking up into his hairline – so, he wore a wig, I supposed? Ew. Well, I suppose it wasn't so bothersome, if one considered that it wasn't necessarily baldness if it wasn't due to old age… right?

I managed to conduct the survey in a matter of seconds – I do think rather quickly, if not well – and the turned to composing my response.

I do not like to brag – oh, never-mind, I _love_ to brag – but every now and again, I can lie very well. This, luckily, was one of those rare times. I pursed my lips and raised my eyebrows at him, before saying, "Is that _all_? My goodness, Erik, I was expecting something a bit more impressive!"

His expression – cold, furious, and almost reproachful – fell immediately into shock. "_What_?"

I shrugged. "Dear boy, with an imagination like mine… you'd have to be a regular _monster_ to frighten me."

He sputtered for a few moments before emitting something intelligent – well, sort of. "But… I _am_ a monster!"

I snorted at his expression, feeling quite pleased with myself as I stood. "Who said _you_ get to decide whether or not you're a monster?"

Erik blinked.

"Really," I remarked, putting a hand on my hip as I reached conversation distance between he and I. Actually, the more I weighed his deformity on his right against the severe _lack_ of deformity on his left… yes, the left side was winning by a literal landslide. I really astounded myself with my perseverance. And fortitude, on that note. "You give yourself too much credit!"

He choked again – but was that a laugh that almost escaped his almost irresistible mouth? Yes, I believe it was!

Triumph flooded my senses.

Alright, so I'll ask you to picture me standing there, smiling blindingly – which makes my eyes bulge, I later noticed after inspecting myself in my hand-mirror (I daren't use the enormous one) – at a man with a deformity that is, in fact, quite impressive – I told you I lied – as he did his best to suppress laughter.

Yes, I thought we made a lovely pair as well.

Right.

Stop laughing.

But his eyes slowly cleared of their amusement, and in the wake of his ease came a horrible sorrow and desperation that tore at my heart, but not so vindictively as the words that accompanied them.

"_Why could _she_ have not thought so_?"

I felt all expression slide off of my face, giving way to a blunt numbness. Tears collected in my eyes, but I had not the life in me to let them fall. It was as if he'd taken out that dagger of my nightmares and slit my throat then and there.

My legs gave out.

Yes, that's a rather ridiculous thing for me to let happen. But I couldn't help it! I'm no plucky novel heroine, who can run away when she's been hurt, to be chased by the hero, and to make amends in a most romantic fashion. I didn't have the strength to hold myself up, so I didn't.

My eyes, however, brought my chin up to look at him.

He was staring at me, with an expression as confused as it was… even more confused. And startled. And a bit concerned. Perhaps he thought I'd gone mad?

_Had_ I gone mad?

Something else crossed through his eyes, and he dropped gracefully to his knees to grasp my nerveless hands in his leather-clad ones. "I apologize, Mademoiselle, I did not mean to imply that I thought nothing of your opinion-"

"Indeed not," I said, my voice hoarse, high, and altogether not my own. "I think… I think that you were right in saying that it _was_ time that I returned to my bedchamber."

And _then_ I found the strength to rise, and fled to my boat, not letting myself look back to where I knew he was staring blankly after me.

**

* * *

Translations:**

_le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Pour Trouver l'Homme Derrière le Monstre_ – To Find the Man Behind the Monster

**Hm. That wasn't what was in my outline.Ah, well.I like this better.**

**Not much French in this one – I had no time to check my grammar, so I didn't bother – but it's longer! Four pages in Microsoft Word. Yay me!**

**Review please!**


	14. Pour Rapporter Votre Coeur

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story.

**Chapter Title:**_ Pour Rapporter Votre Coeur_

**Acknowledgements: Shirl**, thanks for your input. **TurpentineMind**, I appreciate your advice, but Mireille _is_ mercurial. That's the _point_. **LostSchizophrenic**, your enthusiasm always amuses me. To anyone: I wrote this chapter right after I wrote and posted the last one – for some reason, that makes me happy.Yay me!

Ok, now I've got to bring these two back to the original plotline, now that they've manipulated me so deftly. I simply had to write an extra chapter to fix it back the way it was supposed to go! But, looking at the last chapter… I'm very pleased with it. Hopefully, it will strengthen my planning… mwaha. I _am_ brilliant! goes off to note lovely idea

returns

Anyhow.

Chapter Fourteen.

Enjoy.

* * *

I thrust the oar into the water frantically, quite unaware that I was doing more splashing than anything else, and that I was only moving with every other stroke, and even then only slightly.

So, of course, that gave Erik plenty of time to collect himself.

Even still, I was around the first corner and half way down that passage before he started calling me.

It did not take much consideration to come to the decision that I would _not_ be returning to his lair any time soon. Especially not now.

Unfortunately, I hadn't the breath to tell him this. He caught up with me quickly. My goodness, he was much quicker in a boat than I. Of course, he was using that long wooden thing to sort of push himself along… _how_ did he balance?

"_Mireille_, don't be ridiculous, I didn't mean to insult you-"

"It's nothing, Monsieur, I take no offense," I rasped, still paddling in a frenzy, not noticing that my effort had actually begun to turn the boat towards him, and then around again, rather than any helpful movement.

Erik reached out to still me, but I slapped his hand away – and the slightest movement set me off-balance. The boat flipped.

Great.

With an incensed shriek, I lunged at the other boat. "_Va te faire foutre_!" Erik shortly joined me in the water.

"_Va te faire enculer_!" I continued to rage, jumping at him. This, of course, only succeeded in dunking the both of us in the water, which actually cooled my temper ever-so-slightly.

Lucky him.

When I shakily stood, I stubbornly turned my back to him, a bit too aware of how my dress clung to my upper body – most of my lower body was beneath the water – and turned my boat back over.

I was now faced with how I might attempt to get onto it.

…O-kay then…

"Mireille."

Drat him.

"_Fous-moi la paix_," I growled, hoping to sound intimidating.

Apparently, I didn't. I heard him slosh up behind me. "Mireille, I _am_ sorry. You know how… _she_… affects me – I don't know _why_ you continue to deliberately resuscitate those memories…"

"I do _not_," I replied stiffly. "_You_ let her do this to you."

Silence.

"You started it," I said meekly. It was as close to an apology as I was in a state to give him.

He let out a shaky breath that I felt against my damp hair. Curious despite myself, I turned to him, to see his eyes glazed with tears I knew not to expect to see fall. My shoulders slumped.

Oh, great, now he'd made me feel guilty. Stupid kicked-puppy look. "Erik…" I sighed resignedly, "I didn't-"

"You did." He closed his eyes, and let out another shuddering sigh. I felt a wail rising in my throat and suppressed it, but a short whimper emerged with my tears. I did not want to hurt him! Why did he let me hurt him?

Why did he let _her_ hurt him?

His eyes shot open at the noise I had inadvertently made. Whoops.

Hey – he wasn't wearing his mask. Maybe he forgot. That would be weird. How do you forget something you wear all the time? Or perhaps he took it off when he was alone? But whenever I made a… surprise visit, he was always perfectly groomed.

Poor guy. As they say, he was most certainly all dressed up, but with no place to go.

Actually, at the moment, he was looking quite disheveled, and rather soggy.

I ignored my tears, looking up at him speculatively. I raised my right hand to stroke his unmasked cheek with my thumb, and the slight pressure forced a tear from his eye.

He was a pretty crier, too.

If one tear counts.

I smiled weakly up at him, stilling my hand but allowing it to remain on his cheek. I could not feel the unevenness that was so blatantly obvious to the eye. For not his jutting cheekbone and the sunken hollow beneath it, his face did not feel particularly irregular.

"This face has not earned the abuse that it has received," I whispered.

Another tear stole down his cheek – the unmarred one, this time. I matched it with several of my own, and in a moment found myself collapsing into his larger frame, sobbing rather ridiculously.

How was it that I was so much more upset for his sake than he was?

Or maybe I just cried better.

Even still, if I had stopped to think, which I didn't, I might have realized that I was making a fool of myself.

But, as I said, I didn't.

He wrapped his arms around me in a decidedly chaste embrace; a hand on my back and another on my hair, as he waited for me to calm myself.

It did not take very long. I have rather good timing, as far as dramatics go.

"Mireille, your heart is too big," he murmured in an almost-chastisement, when I was reduced to sniffles. "I do not deserve your compassion – you should realize that it is ill-founded. I have… done horrible things. If you did not read the article in the-"

"I read the article," I whimpered. "I don't _care_ about the stupid article. I don't care about what you did. I shouldn't care at all. But… my heart isn't as big as you believe, Erik. I'm just… being silly, I suppose. I'm sorry… I shouldn't have-"

"You did," but there was a smile in his voice now, though not on his face. I was rather pleased with that.

Erik's sudden, if unfortunately chaste, kiss, to be pressed against my forehead (drat) was something I had most certainly _not_ anticipated.

Ah, well. Just a perk, I suppose.

"Come now," he said gently, "I will take you back to your room."

"But my boat…" I looked over at it, hoping my voice didn't reflect the distracted stupor that I was in. "I need-"

"However much I don't enjoy being interrupted – I will bring your boat, Mademoiselle, never fear."

As he lifted me into his boat before climbing in behind me, I leaned back against his knees, as dazedness became lethargy. "Never…" I echoed stupidly.

**

* * *

Translations:**

_le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Pour Rapporter Votre Coeur_ – To Take Your Heart Back

**Okay, it's short, but it's kinda cute… Review please! I need verification that my fluff is not atrocious! No French, because I could not check my grammar.I believe this may become routine, unfortunately.**


	15. un Plaisir Inégalé

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story.

**Chapter Title:**_ un Plaisir Inégalé_

**Acknowledgements: DragonRyder7514 **and **Wildpixiechild16**, thanks for reading! I love new faces. Er… pennames. **TheSiriusSparrow** – whew! Thanks so much for restoring my confidence! **Laura Kay**, let it simply be known that, from what I know of French, Mireille has a rather dirty mouth.

If anyone here knows any especially rancid French curses that I haven't used yet, _please _drop me an email – preferably not a review, in this singular case. I've only been to France once, and I'm getting most of my expanded vocabulary from the internet. I'd much rather have live help, if it's offered. Oh, and **Laura**, sorry I'm keeping you from your work! I'm keeping myself from my work, as well, if it helps, and… I can only hope my grades don't suffer too much!

**Shirl**, thanks for the compliment. I wrote something _moving_! bounces I'll try and incorporate a little more French, if the opportunity arises. I find it especially helpful as an alternative for otherwise awkward phrasing. **Lotrfreak007**… um, thanks for all the reviews? And as to her being immature for 27… yes, she is. Sorry, if that's a problem, but I see her as a flighty ballerina with a flair for drama, who's aged past her prime, and is now sort of… disconnected. Moving on: I update every few days, don't worry. **UNSEENxGENIUS**, thanks! I _did_ look at your phanfic – it was good! Please update it! **Collins**, thanks for the nice review! **Doodilydoo**, it's okay if you're bad at threatening: I don't need threats. Erik takes care of that, if I don't update quickly enough. And lastly, to **LostSchizophrenic**, thanks for your loyalty! I love all of my reviewers! Yaaaaaay!

In this exciting installment, there are… interesting things! Read and enjoy!

Also, are there any betas out there? I beta, myself, but I can't beta my _own_ work – any volunteers? I need a real Grammar-Nazi, _s'il-vous plait_.

* * *

"La-dee-da-_daaa_..." I sang cheerfully to myself as I splashed in the bathtub, the _bulles chaux-parfumées_ wafting across the water.

Mind you, I do not sing well. 'Well' and 'loudly,' I have found, are very different things, when referring to singing.

And lots of other things.

But I won't go into that.

Anyway, I had been bathing myself for over twenty minutes, though I _had_ taken a bath yesterday… the maid had looked quite sour at the waste of time and water, as I was already clean.

Well, I planned to bathe _every day_, assuming I had the time. Which I probably would not. _C'est sans importance_. I loved feeling clean.

However, once I had washed my hair twice, anointed myself with lime-scented soap, and popped every last bubble in the bath, I had sliced up my legs with this horrible abomination that Meg had given me, called a _rasoir_, which was to be used to remove the fine blonde hairs from my legs. It looked remarkably like what men used to shave their faces. Meg had told me that hairless legs were _très attrayant aux yeux des hommes_. Blood or no, I had vowed my legs would be as hairless as a lizard's for the rest of my days.

So now I was up to my chin in water, shivering, with my feet propped on the brim of the tub, lifting my legs from out of the bath as the soap that had already invaded my wounds burned to the point that tears rose in my eyes to remain unshed.

Ok… I got the feeling I would be here for a while.

My mind wandered amiably… and kept returning to its new-found favorite topic. Drat my luck.

That beautiful face… a beauty so perfect to one side, and so horrible on the other, and yet… a work of art. Those brilliant eyes, windows into his soul, but sometimes barred with that thoughtful expression that I could not quite interpret.

Those broad, masculine shoulders… mmmmm...

_Okay, enough of that._

…..

The sculpted cheekbone, the smooth jaw, those sinful lips that roved across my neck in my dreams…

Ahem!

I wasn't being dramatic, there… Erik had haunted my dreams, last night. Well, I don't exactly remember it, but several details of the novel I had just finished surfaced in the course of it… Oh, dear.

_Not to say that it wasn't a _lovely_ dream_…

Wait, no, I _do_ say that it wasn't a lovely dream!

Ok, fine. It was a very… nice… dream.

"This is really bothersome," I informed myself, shifting my weight to the heels of my feet and wincing as a fearsome gash on my ankle complained vociferously. "In the general sense."

He really was being cruel, plaguing even my disillusioned fantasies. Of course, it was more my own fault than his… but he _had_ to go and… _exist_!

What on Earth did I think about before I knew him?

Wincing terribly, I pushed myself out of the water with my arms, sliding my legs to the ground before standing shakily, then snatching my _serviette_ from the end of the screen. I wrapped it around me, bunching the extra material to above mid-thigh to avoid contact with my cuts. I stepped around the screen, and went to the pitcher of water I had intended to use to wash my face that night. I took a white cloth from my _table de nuit_ and dipped it in the tepid water, before marring the pristine linen with the residue of blood that I wiped from my legs.

I hissed as the cloth crossed one of the not-so-shallow wounds, then bit my lip and waited for the burning to cease before leaning down again…

…and finding my hand caught in a familiar leather glove. I looked sharply into over-bright grey-green eyes.

"Excuse _me_, Monsieur, but I'm hardly in a state in which your presence is acceptable!" I snatched my wrist from his grip.

"Mademoiselle, I only wished to offer you a clean cloth and cool water to cleanse your… _interesting_ injuries." He replied innocently, eyes flicking to my slightly mangled calves.

"Yes, well…" Thinking quickly, I grabbed a quilt from the end of my bed and threw it over his head. "Don't even _think_ about moving."

His chuckle was muffled, but I was not listening. Wincing as I dashed to my dresser, I withdrew and donned my unmentionables and a modestly cut nightshift. I then sighed in slight exasperation, wrapped the slightly bloodstained towel around my shoulders, and returned to relieve Erik of his improvised blindfold.

A smirk played at his gorgeous mouth, and I gave him my best disapproving glare – I'd been practicing it, after all, on the _corps de ballet_. He dropped it obediently, but the amusement only intensified in his eyes.

Have I mentioned that he has extraordinary eyes?

Oh, yes, I suppose I have.

"Now," I said sharply, feeling my cheeks redden, "Thank you for your assistance, but I'm certain you have other things to do, and I'd really prefer you saw to _them_, instead."

An incontrovertible lie. Could he tell?

Whether or not he possessed telepathy, he raised an eyebrow at me and said, "Mademoiselle, you'll not be able to stand applying the disinfecting emulsion yourself." He waved a bottle of the familiarly evil liquid at me mockingly.

He had a point. And… I _had_ been lying.

I sat on the bed with a heavy sigh and thrust my ankle towards him, crossing my arms over my chest to achieve maximum pouting effectiveness.

He only laughed quietly and shook his head, before coating the linen with alcohol and pressing it to my leg.

I screamed.

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans le Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_Un Plaisir Inégalé_ – An Unparalleled Delight

_Bulles chaux-parfumées_ – lime-scented bubbles

_C'est sans importance_ – It is of no importance.

_Rasoir_ razor

_Très attrayant aux yeux des homes_ – very attractive to the eyes of the menfolk

_Serviette_ towel


	16. la Nuit Indique sa Magie

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story.

**Chapter Title:**_ la Nuit Indique sa Magie_

**Acknowledgements: **to **La Foamy**,** Collins**,** UNSEENxGENIUS**, **Laura Kay**, **Phantom of the Fedora**,and **TheSiriusSparrow**: Thanks for your reviews! Yeah, I was wondering about the shaving thing, so… I decided to improvise. It's my story. If I want them to have razors in my story, they most certainly _will_! More controversial items, such as televisions or wristwatches, however, will not be so exploited.

**Shirl** and **LostSchizophrenic**: I am working on a 'beta edition' of what I've already written, to send to you for some preliminary advising. I intend to continue posting future chapters as soon as I finish them, in order to continue updating every few days, but I will be revising them with suggestions you two might give me, and then reposting them. Of course, if you think this unwise, please let me know, and I will reconsider.

Lastly, to **A.E. Hall**: dear, let me assure you that I really do appreciate your advice. Though you probably won't read this, I'd simply like to point out the subcategory: _humor_. I _know_ that Mireille is ridiculously immature for her age. If I intended to professionally publish this, which I most certainly don't, I would_definitely_ reform the entire persona. But I'm not. I began writing this for my own enjoyment (you lovely reviewers aresimply incentive to _continue_) and I'm not 27; I don't know, nor do I really care, how mature a 27-year-old thinks that he or she is. Also, I plan to explore Mireille's forced realization of her age in the future, when she needs it. Right now, she's a teenage ballerina who forgot to grow up – because I said so, and because it's what happened when I started writing her. I really didn't plan Mireille, love. She just happened. And as for 'stereotypical romance'… you don't know the _half_ of what I have planned for these two! cackles

I didn't mean to rant. My apologies. I certainly don't accuse **A.E.** of any flaming – I've gotten _real_ a flame before, and I know what to expect.

Anyway, it's about to be Spring Break, so I'll have lots of time to write – yeah, I wish. I'm being dragged off to Steamboat, Colorado to ski – I do not have the 'enjoyment of skiing' gene – and I have not even been assured that I will have internet access at all! I won't be gone for too long, though, my dear reviewers, and I will try to write even when I cannot post… I will miss all of you terribly!

Well, not really. But I'll miss getting reviews. grin Just kidding. Of course I'll miss you guys!

Anyway, here's Chapter Sixteen.

* * *

"That _hurts_!" I wailed, jerking my leg away from the offending cloth.

Erik glared halfheartedly at me. "Mademoiselle, if these cuts are not cleansed, it is very possible that they will become infected and…" he paused, before curtly finishing, "_scarred_."

I froze. Then delicately offered him my still-throbbing ankle.

The masked man had turned away from me, and was removing his gloves. Well, certainly he would want to – wouldn't alcohol damage such obviously fine leather?

He wrapped his bare hand around my slender ankle – all ballerinas have slender ankles, after all, it is a requirement – and I hissed, but not at the shriek of objection emanated tacitly by my wounds.

I really was impracticable, at times.

But honestly, his hands were _magnificent_. Long, slender fingers and broad palms… a musician's hands, of course. He simply grew more enthralling, the more I saw of him.

Actually, that sounded terribly wrong. We'll forget I thought that, shan't we?

I squeaked as the wicked substance invaded a nasty gash across the bone of my knee, and Erik's mouth twitched grimly as he pressed the cloth to the incision.

He was enjoying my frustration. How _dare_ he!

The next sound I involuntarily emitted was an irritated growl, which earned an outright chuckle from him.

"Don't laugh at me!" I whined, offended. Erik raised his brows at me, those lovely eyes mirthful and mocking. I glared at him mulishly.

He schooled his expression to one that was classically stoic. "Would you object to bandages?" He asked tonelessly, eyes still laughing at me.

"I most certainly _would_!" I resolutely ignored his disparagement. "How am I to earn the respect of the _corps de ballet_ if my legs are covered in bandages?"

He snorted. "How are you to earn the respect of the _corps de ballet_ if your legs are hacked to ribbons?"

I paused. He had a point. "You're not allowed to be right _twice_!" I wailed theatrically.

Erik actually rolled his eyes. "Mireille, discontinue this infantile behavior at once. I am not known for my patience, and you are forcing me to regret offering my aid at all."

I immediately fell silent. Then broke such a blessing, speaking softly, "I – sorry."

He said nothing, drawing more linen from the dark mass of his discarded cloak. How did he know all this of medicinal matter? And where all of those bandages come from? I had not bought them for him!

My leg was soon swathed in white linen, pinned with a few hairpins that Erik filched from my dressing table. The second soon matched, though only the ankle was bound. I'd become more familiar with the process by the time I'd mangled my left leg.

When Erik had completed his ministrations, he rose and replaced his elegant cloak about his shoulders. I watched him awkwardly.

"You can stand in those bandages?" he half-asked. Experimentally, I slid off the bed, prepared to catch myself. But I didn't fall. I tried bending my leg beneath the bandages. No luck.

"I'll have to remove them before rehearsal tomorrow." I announced.

He shook his head. "It would be wiser to simply loosen them in the joint area."

I blinked. "Alright, then."

Erik paused, then nodded. "I will return on the morrow, to be certain you need no assistance in the replacement of your bindings."

That was a valediction, then. As he raised a hand to the mechanism on the mirror, I was filled with a rather strong sense of isolation, and… my goodness, he was handsome. I couldn't just let him _leave_, could I?

Well, yes, I could. But I was rather desperate for companionship. _Particular_ companionship.

And how was I going to get him to stay? Well, obviously, I'd play damsel-in-distress. It had worked so well before, after all, when it had been unintentional!

I neatly pulled my legs out from under me, falling loudly.

Actually, maybe that wasn't such a good idea. "Ow," I whimpered breathily, feeling my eyes well up as I _felt_ a bruise distending my hip.

He was at my side in an instant – those 'catlike reflexes' were something to be appreciated. "Mireille, are you well? Are the bandages disconnecting your circulation?"

I blinked. "I'm alright, I think. I must have… tripped, I suppose. I'm not accustomed to not being able to bend my legs properly, after all." I made a face.

His eyes followed mine to my bandages after he helped me up, and into a sitting position on my bed. "What on Earth _possessed_ you, Mademoiselle, to so injure yourself? Are you suicidal?" His tone told me he certainly didn't think I looked the part. I decided not to be offended by that – rather, I was embarrassed.

"I… was trying to... shave my legs…" I blundered timorously, cheeks flaming, "Mademoiselle Giry didn't explain it… fully, and-"

"Shave your-" Erik looked faintly pink as well, from what I could see of his face, which lightened my discomfiture somewhat. "_Why_?"

I raised my eyebrows at him. "It is _fashionable_ to do so, Monsieur, and Meg has assured me that I _must_, or I will never attract a suitor worth my salt." What _did_ that expression mean, anyway?

He blinked, looking somewhat stung. I returned his slightly confused gaze.

"Well," he said stiffly, straightening, "Good luck on attracting this… _suitor_." And he turned to leave once more.

Hang on.

What?

"Wait a moment," I said slowly, but he was already leaving. I slid from the bed. "Erik-"

I stumbled truly this time, squeaking as my stiff legs tangled in each other and I toppled forward-

_He caught me_.

I paused until I could keep my eyes from a size so wide I was unable to blink.

"Wow," I whispered into his face, which was rather close to mine. "You're _good_ at that."

He snapped out of superhero mode, neatly pulling me to my feet and replacing me on the bed as if I were a feather. I wish I was a feather. I could probably do well to drop a few pounds.

Oh, dear – _what if he noticed_?

"Anyway," I chirped, stone-faced, "I don't understand – have I offended you, somehow? Should I not _have_ a suitor if I am to be in your service? Because I assure you, Monsieur, I was not being serious – I know of no man who would have me, and I am too old to find one in a manner that would suit polite society…"

"Old?" Erik seemed taken aback. "You're not old. You are but a child."

I smiled wryly, "Only in my spirit, Erik, though you're sweet to say so. Have you even _looked_ at me enough to guess my age?"

He straightened, and stoically studied me, as one would study a very famous painting, to form one's personal opinion of it. I immediately began to fidget.

"Thirty," he announced after a very long two minutes.

I gasped, clapping a hand to my mouth as my eyes dampened.

Erik blinked, looking worried, and rather panicked, for a moment. "No?" he amended helplessly.

"Twenty-seven!" I cried, mortified. I slid from the bed once more, and when Erik jumped to catch me, I half-dragged him to the enormous mirror, stiff-legged, to meticulously inspect my reflection.

He was right. I _did_ look thirty. I'd developed light creases in the corners of my eyes, and there was a faint line between my brows; across my forehead, from narrowing my eyes in concentration. My lips looked thinner, my eyes dimmer, my cheekbones more pronounced…

"I'm _old_!" I wailed, collapsing into tears against the black silk of Erik's cloak, "I'm old and single and poor and I'm going to die a poverty-ridden spinster with no family and eighteen cats-" I broke off into sobs, and could hardly breathe until I felt his chest heaving beneath me.

Erik was _cracking up_. I was shocked out of my distress. I'd never earned any more than a nice chortle from him before, but now he looked beyond simply amused.

He caught me staring, and sobered instantaneously. Which made _me_ snort in derision, and then, overcome with a wave of exhaustion whose likes could only be achieved by a plethora of emotions covered in a very small amount of time, I dropped my head back onto his chest, wrapping my arms around his waist and leaning into him heavily in an embrace that was not romantic in the slightest. I let out an enormous sigh, and smiled into his cloak. This was nice. He smelled good. Like…heavy mist. A sort of almost-sweet, liquidy smell. More masculine than it sounded. Like fog.

By all things holy, he even _smelled_ mysterious.

Erik was very still. I ignored his discomfort obdurately.

A knock on the door had him springing away from me, and me collapsing towards him, having been unprepared for the sudden movement. He seized me awkwardly, and pushed me back onto my feet.

"Mireille? It's Meg. You'll never guess who's here!"

I blinked, then froze. "_Une segande_, Meg," I called, voice suddenly hoarse, "Let me make myself presentable."

Erik was headed for the mirror, but I yanked him back sharply by his collar. "Oh, no, you don't," I hissed. "I've guessed who's here, and _She_ will recognize that sound!"

He stilled.

I pointed. "Under the bed."

He gawked at me.

"Well, where else is there to go?" I whispered in response, "Hurry!"

He slid beneath the tall bed frame, but I heard him growl softly in distaste.

I grabbed my morning dress and slipped it over my shoulders, cinching the laces in a single movement before pulling the door open. "I'm terribly sorry, Meg – and who is your lovely friend?"

I was suddenly amazingly conscious of my damp, unbrushed hair and my bandaged legs – though at least the latter were hidden beneath my skirts.

"I'm sorry to greet you in such a state of disarray, Mademoiselle," I addressed the second woman, "I had not expected guests."

"Please, I am no Mademoiselle, but you may call me Christine," the young woman said in a rosy tone.

"Ah, the Vicomtess _de_ Chagny, then. Meg had told me about you," I said politely, forcing a smile and a curtsy.

"Oh, please do not use such formality! It makes me feel old!" Her light tone made a mockery of my earlier woes, for certainly this woman could not be a day over twenty.

Indeed, all I had heard of her seemed accurate. Christine _de_ Chagny was a petite woman with soft curves on a slender frame; with lush chocolate curls pulled back to the nape of her arched, ivory neck, upon which poised a head with delicate features: full lips, a small nose, enormous doe-eyes, and a broad, youthful forehead. She had the grace of a ballerina, and the classic beauty of an opera diva, but the innocence of… the roses of which she smelled.

I felt like vomiting. Who had allowed this woman to exist?

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans la Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_La Nuit Indique sa Magie_ – Night Unfurls its Splendor

**Review please! Could you tell I had a short bout of writer's block about halfway through?**


	17. la Lumière Crue du Jour

**Title:** _le Visage dans le Miroir_

**Author:** Rancid Melody

**Summary:** A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of _L'Opéra Populaire_ to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

**Disclaimer:** _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

**Warning:** I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story.

**Chapter Title:**_ la Lumière Crue du Jour_

**Acknowledgements: **First and foremost, let me thank my wonderful betas, **Shirl** and **LostSchizophrenic**. I plan to repost earlier chapters with their advised changed made posthaste. To **TheSiriusSparrow** and **Collins**, thanks for keeping up! **Collins**, I hope that my keeping you away from cramming for midterms didn't do any harm!

Lastly, thanks to the latest new face, **coloratura**! Nice hearing from you!

I owe everyone an apology for taking so long to update. I had fully intended to write while vacationing in Steamboat, Colorado (I still can't believe I actually allowed myself to be coaxed onto a _snowboard_!). As you must have realized, that didn't happen. So I'm writing it now, on a Friday night. It's 11:33pm Central, and I'm exhausted, but I shall not sleep until I've made some progress with this chapter.

Christine kills all of my inspiration. Ugh.

Update: It is now 10:13pm Central, and I'm hiding from my family – my evil grandmother has come over to 'enjoy' Easter with us, and my mother is having a stroke trying to keep the house spotless. I'm trying to squeeze the rest of this chapter out of my brain.

Update #2: Drat, I forgot to post this chapter this morning! Ugh... sorry. Anyway, it's 7:50pm Central, and I'm posting this. Finally!

* * *

"I'm sure you two will be dear friends," Meg said enthusiastically as she took a standing position between me, as I reclined against the bedpost, and Christine, who was looking discomfited as she stood near the door. I noticed her dark eyes flicking towards the mirror with no small amount of nausea in her expression.

"Madame _la_ Vicomtess, are you well?" I offered my most concerned expression to the petite young woman, taking a step forward – then wincing as the most ferocious gash on my ankle rebuked the motion.

Her expression cleared, and the near mirrored my own – though, I must say, I am most certainly the better actress. "I'm quite alright, Mademoiselle Decker, but is your foot ailing you?"

Caught. "I _would_ be fine," I let my voice slip into a somewhat conspiratorial tone, "had _dear_ Meg not given me that _lovely_ mechanism that has reduced my legs to mincemeat!"

Meg clapped her hands to her mouth, face flushing. "Oh, Mireille, I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you might have trouble… I was so _careful_ when I first learned-"

"Never you mind it," I waved her apologies away amiably. "Now, _Christine_, tell me about your wonderful new life with this Vicomte _de_ Chagny I've heard so much about!"

Christine was abruptly a virginal maiden, blushing and stammering prettily. I resisted a gag for propriety's sake.

"Oh, well… he's extraordinary, of course, and so very affectionate, and… er, I really do adore him – he's so sweet, and childlike, and yet so caring…"

"Yes, but is he good in bed?" Meg snickered devilishly.

Her face went a very charming shade of pink, and she suddenly developed a speech impediment. "W-well, I-I- um-"

"Oh, don't be so crude, Meg!" I reprimanded halfheartedly, particularly aware of the extra pair of ears that were party to this conversation. I quickly deflected attention from myself, by directing my eyes to Christine in order to prompt: "Well, is he?"

As Meg's giggles and Christine's horrified exclamations left them to distract each other as only the closest of friends could, I lowered my lashes to glance at the floor, then gently stomped my right heel to chide Erik's eager eyes back, before he was noticed.

"So," Meg's voice was suddenly quiet, "Tell us about your… _other man_."

Christine's face fell, and lost its peachy hue. "I… must we?"

The blonde ballerina pursed her lips. "Well, I think that Mireille has a right to hear the story firsthand – I'm sure I haven't told it properly!"

I fidgeted, leaning back against the bed frame, "That's really alright; she mustn't feel compelled to relive such things for my sake…" _Or the sake of others_…

"Well, it isn't so horrible…" Christine mused morosely. "Or, it wasn't, until the end…"

I bit my tongue, leaning further against the bedpost as I dreaded whatever she could possibly say.

I certainly didn't expect what I heard.

"I… I wish that it had happened some other way. That he had met someone else, before her met me – that he could know I was not the only woman he could direct his heart to. That he… had loved somebody else – but for his own sake, rather than mine… even if I had never met Raoul, I fear I could not have loved him, truly. I… am not that passionate; am not that devoted, or that… _dark_. I… he was so _dark_, so very, very dark, that his very _soul_ was distorted by the horror of his face. I feared him so wholly, he with that voice that drew me in like a siren's song… he had that power over me, so much that I loathed him, by the end, until I realized… that the world had set him on this path… irrevocably. And because he had chosen me to love, and I could not return those feelings, I had spurned his final chance at… sanity, even. I wish… I only wish he could have found that happiness…"

Oh, _honestly_. She sounded as if she was making this up as she went along! How could she wound my phantom that way?

Well. My phantom. That was new.

And not good. Not at all.

Meg finally cleared her throat, speaking gaily. "Well! That was… enlightening! Now, Christine, you _must_ tell Mireille about the _baby_!"

Uh-oh.

Christine's expression slowly became more vibrant, as she pressed a hand to her stomach in the classic position of a newly expectant mother. "Oh, Raoul and I are so terribly excited! I am a bit worried, though… Philippe has gone through three wives with no heir, and Raoul speaks of the possibility that the Comte is… _infertile_. If so, we simply must have an heir, in order for Raoul and he to assume the title upon Philippe's demise… if this isn't a boy, I worry that Raoul will be disappointed. He would never tell me this, of course, but I can read his expressions quite easily – I love that about him…"

Dear Lord, since when had I become Christine _de_ Chagny's second confidante?

"Anyway, I think that, if it is a boy, we will name it either Phillipe or Raoul – my husband has always been somewhat traditional, at least in the nominal venue… if it is a girl, I would like to name her Abigail, after my mother, but Raoul had suggested Wisteria, after his great aunt – current matriarch of his family. She's very unhappy about his marriage to me, you see, and he is so very eager to appease her-"

Why did she expect me to be interested in this information? Goodness, I felt as if I might pass out from sheer boredom, combined with no small amount of anxiety…

"She's not quite as frightening as I had expected, from the way she's spoken of – really, she was rather chilly when we first met, but she became much kinder after a few glasses of champagne..."

Oh..._kay_, I needed to get this child out of here before I became bad company. "I'm terribly sorry, my dear, but I'm afraid I needed to review my notes before I retired to my bed, and it is reaching a rather late hour..." I turned to the richly carved clock I'd been so delighted to find and commandeer from one of the currently uninhabited rooms. "Yes, it's past the ninth hour! We'll simply have to catch up later, shall we not?"

"Oh, my apologies, Mademoiselle! I had not intended to keep you away from your work!" Christine said, eyes large, "Please, do let Meg and I excuse ourselves. Shall I see you tomorrow?"

"Christine is going to sit in on the rehearsal!" Meg informed me brightly. "Won't it be nice to have another opinion on your choreography?"

Feeling a rather sharp pang of dread, I could only keep the bitterness from the words that escaped me. "Were you not a chorus member in your days here, Madame? I did not know you were a ballerina as well!"

Christine blinked. "Oh, well, I was not, but I thought I might be able to help..."

"Of course," I said tonelessly, fixing a smile across my features once more, "I shall anticipate your commentary!"

Ridiculously long farewells ensued, and then I finally closed the door behind the giggling pair, leaning my head against the door with a relieved sigh.

When I turned around, Erik was halfheartedly brushing dust from his coat, the visible side of his face twisted with remorse and ache of heart.

I sighed again, my eyes sinking closed momentarily in so to adjust my mannerisms to handling the woes of_fantôme d'opéra assuming he would allow me to do so._

**

* * *

Translations:**

_Le Visage dans la Miroir_ – The Face in the Mirror

_La Lumière Crue du Jour_ – The Garish Light of Day

**Reviewing is happy and good. Yay!**


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